


It Had to Be You

by moon_crater, SynthApostate



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: 'It's a crapsack world and everything sucks. Let's drink make bad choices and stick it to The Man.', Abandonment Issues, Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Awkward Sex, Biphobia, Bisexual Character, Body Shaming, Canon-Typical Problematic Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Cohabitation, Consent Issues, Developing Crushes, Developing Relationship, Dysfunctional Relationships, Enemies to Lovers to Friends, F/M, Fighting, First Time, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Reproductive Coercion, Self-Destructive Tendencies, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Trauma, body image issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 77,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7798783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_crater/pseuds/moon_crater, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SynthApostate/pseuds/SynthApostate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Vault 101 Overseer's Terminal. Entry: Dec 5, 2276. Vault population continues to diminish in spite of my best efforts to encourage procreation. Potential courses of action at this time: </i>
</p><p>
  <i>1. Open the Vault (Unthinkable!)</i>
  <br/>
  <i>2. Incentivize reproduction (Previous attempts have historically proven unsuccessful.)</i>
  <br/>
  <i>3. Institute a breeding program (Acceptable. If maximized, I dare say ideal.)</i>
</p><p>Right. Ideal for who, exactly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme. [The prompt](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/7011.html?thread=18886755#t18886755), pared down for space:
> 
> _Dwellers of Vault 101 are matched for their genetics. Unfortunately the LW is matched with Butch. Neither are happy about this, they hate each other and now the Overseer expects them to have sex?_
> 
> _++ It is really really awkward when they do do the do._   
>  _+++ because of the intense dislike, Butch has trouble getting it up, so LW has to help him._   
>  _++++ its just an awkward mess and yeah_
> 
> **WARNINGS** : This story is tagged "Consent Issues" for a reason. Whether you think it's dubcon or noncon depends where you feel that particular line lies. It's easily readable as either. I cannot stress this enough. Chapters with sexual content will be labeled, but the topic is central to the plot, so it's mentioned a lot.
> 
> The prompt hinges on institutionalized rape normalized by those in positions of power; the sex is not physically violent, but it's still forced by circumstances. _None_ of the characters can meaningfully consent under these conditions. Please read with that in mind. As procreation is mandated, the premise also means there's consent issues in that respect: the "breeding program" qualifies as reproductive violence and coercion/forced pregnancy.
> 
> As well as everything else that's tagged, this story contains themes already common to Fallout (alcohol/tobacco use, problematic language etc.) Also, because Butch is an immature jackass to varying degrees, there are bullying behaviors, onscreen and off. Some, mostly pre-story and mentioned in passing, with undertones of sexual harassment/body shaming. As this is a WIP, other things will be tagged along the way.
> 
>  **Notes** : This was supposed to be a PWP, but it mutated. Must be all the rads.
> 
> This story deals with heavy subjects, but it's primarily written with a light touch, with an emphasis on coping, healing, and friendship. The characters are trying to make the best of a bleak situation; while there's angst and drama, humor is still prevalent. Youthful awkwardness and shenanigans abound. There may even perhaps be romance later, if I can't rein the characters in before the ending. (I probably can't.)
> 
> Finally, if there's EVER a warning I've missed (it happens, writers are only human--or in my case, three garden gnomes in a trench coat) please let me know.
> 
> With much love and thanks to SynthApostate: friend, enabler, beta, and good idea factory, without whom I would not appear half so clever.

_Procreation is your civic duty_.

When she'd been a kid, that hadn't meant much. A good long word to practice reading when she was first learning how, and a few obnoxious snickers whenever Butch was around— _haa_ _doody—_ but that was about it. Even when she learned the definition, it was still a meaningless string of letters with no real mental image or feeling attached. Like “fresh air” or “sunshine,” it remained abstract.

_Procreation is your civic duty._

When she was thirteen, they had sex ed in school, and she frowned through all the gaps in the information that her father had already filled in for her in private. While the boys snickered to each other and whispered “tits!” and “boners!” until Amata snapped at them to shut up, it gradually dawned on her what it meant.

_Procreation is your civic duty._

She would be expected to mate with one of those smelly animals someday. The ones who stuck gum in her hair so often she finally chopped it all off. The ones who snapped her bra strap at their first class formal until her skin felt raw. The ones who called her names that hurt in different ways depending on their target— _nerd_ and _flat chested_ and _braceface_. It's not like there was anyone else. Vault 101: no one ever enters, no one ever leaves, a fact tattooed inside her ears by the Overseer's voice.

There would be no eleventh hour delivery of eligible bachelors, no “Surprise! There's an inter-vault exchange program!” explosion of confetti from Vault-Tec, who were just kidding about that whole sealed door thing. She would have to—she would _have to…_

And then she'd have to have a baby.

She had nightmares for a week. About sex, about being pregnant, about _dying_ _in childbirth_.

 _Procreation is your civic duty_.

At nearly fifteen, she figured out that she liked boys, at least a little, and girls a lot more than that. When the Overseer caught her with a tattered copy of _The Price of Salt_ she'd found in one of unused sections of the vault _,_ he chuckled in a way she didn't like. Touched her arm in a way she liked even less.

“Such a voracious reader,” he'd simpered, plucking the book from her sweaty, guilty hands. “You'll read anything you can find, won't you?”

Within the week, she returned from class to a plain brown package on her bed. Beneath the crumpled paper she found three pristine, conventional romances and the remnants of her own found treasure, its cover blackened with ink to conceal two elegant women in subtle embrace. Inside, in red pen, she found an inscription.

_A fine book, but I encourage you to broaden your horizons and develop wider reading tastes._

The implied _or else_ hurt and frightened her in ways she couldn't fully articulate. In the vaguest way possible—easy to deny as a threat should she tell anyone of the exchange—he made it clear her preferences didn't matter. He didn't even care what they were. If she was curious or confused or something else entirely made no difference to him, so long as it wouldn't get in the way of her future as a brood mare.

That night she cried herself sick, with her book clutched so tight and for so long the ink stained her fingertips.

Her father, always more perceptive than she wanted him to be, said nothing. But a different brown paper package found its way to her bedroom in the following days. Inside, she found six well loved paperbacks, their spines cracked and worn, and a brief note: _These were your mother's_.

They all had women on them.

_Procreation is your civic duty._

By eighteen, she'd more or less accepted it, that she'd be married and mothering children for the good of the vault someday. Or thought she had. Her first kiss, a year earlier, had been a girl. Her second, a boy. Both were nice enough to curl her toes. She had that much figured out, at least.

But someday turned out to be much sooner than she anticipated. Sooner than anyone could have. The youngest member of her class turned eighteen and then…

__Then…_ _

She glanced at the spinning diner marquee in time to see it flash _Procreation is your civic duty_ for the hundredth time in the past hour. Oh, how she wanted to smash it. With her bare hands until they were bloody, if necessary. The fingers around her coffee mug flexed until her knuckle joints popped. A long few moments later, they relaxed and she sighed in defeat.

Optimistically—foolishly _—_ she'd thought when the time came they'd have some kind of choice in their partner. If not a choice, then at least the chance to court each other before being married. Instead, the Overseer wanted genetic matching, based on who would produce the strongest, smartest offspring, and immediate marriages, to ensure procreation could begin as soon as possible. He had a large enough pool of fresh genetic material to start repopulating the vault, why wait for them to pair off organically?

So she was poked and prodded and cheek swabbed, given a cookie and a pat on the head like the conclusions drawn from her blood and saliva wouldn't map out the rest of her future. Told not to worry, even though that's all she _could_ do. That had been nearly a week ago, and she was no closer to feeling all right with it than she had been to begin with. In a day or two, the test results would be in for every vault dweller under the age of twenty-five. In another week at most, the suitable pairs would be newlyweds. They'd have a lovely reception, brush the rice from their hair, and then—like good little lab rats—settle into their new lives as married couples.

If they got lucky, they were only looking at fifty, sixty, years of mutual misery and existential despair before the sweet release of death. Whoever didn't die first could fill their remaining years with whatever wild pursuits old people got up to, she thought bitterly. Extreme macrame or something equally exciting.

Brooding, she stared into the blackness in her cup. She was willing to fulfill her obligations to the vault. She owed it her existence, her safety, of course she would. But so soon? She was an adult, technically, but she'd barely had any time at all to do stupid things with her independence! There weren't a lot of wild oats to go around in a place like this, but now she'd never manage to sow even one or two. Even if she tried, no way could she fit a lifetime's worth into less than a week.

She tried to tell herself that she might get paired with Freddie, who at least wouldn't try to push her around. He was kind of cute. If she had to wake up to the same face every day for the rest of her life, she hoped it would be one she could stand to look at. But with her luck, she'd end up with Wally Mack and his stupid hair and grandpa voice. Or, worse, his creepy older brother.

Paul might not be so bad. It was difficult to gauge how successful a match between them would be, but if she tilted her head and squinted just so, she could imagine it being all right. His conversational skills left something to be desired, but perhaps there was a brilliant philosopher under all those layers of Tunnel Snake propaganda he repeated ad nauseam. She did know he liked to read—in secret, because the rest of the 'gang' couldn't abide _learning._ That would give them some common ground. Lazy Sunday afternoons sitting and poring over books together could be nice. Not “decades long relationship” nice, but it might get her through the first few years without resorting to heavy drinking.

Jim Wilkins and Steve-Not-Stevie Armstrong were similarly bland and inoffensive. Being shallow as puddles and twice as dumb besides, they didn't offer much hope of hidden depths; but she might be able to carve out something resembling contentment with one of them, even if delirious matrimonial happiness was out of the question.

She willfully ignored the possibility of being paired with Butch. He was... _him_. She might marry him, if forced, but she'd scoop her uterus out with a rusty spoon before she'd help continue his genetic line. He probably wouldn't be too keen on the idea, either, but who knew for sure? Boys could be real creeps when even the possibility of sex entered the picture, much less the Officially Vault-Tec Sanctioned Certainty.

Taking another sip of her coffee, she drew a deep breath, counted to ten. So, sitting alone in the diner at two in the morning making herself angry all over again wasn't helping matters. What else was there to do? She couldn't go talk it out with anyone. Amata was asleep, not that she could have received visitors at this hour anyway with the Overseer's iron-fisted rule over her social life. Her father was dozing in the clinic when she'd looked in on him, and she didn't want to disturb him. His sleeping habits had always been poor, and the genetic testing added to his workload significantly. It was better to let him rest when he found the time.

Even Andy had been preoccupied when she came into the diner, puttering around and putting dishes away, making unusual beeping noises that she guessed were some new subroutine installing. She'd actually poured her own cup of coffee for the first time since the day she'd first been allowed to _drink_ coffee, snagged a seat and then started to sulk.

He wasn't busy now, and her cup was almost empty so she'd have an excuse to get his attention, but a Mr. Handy wouldn't make a good analyst. Even if he was hovering behind the counter, looking at her as fretfully as any robot could, with the aperture of one of his eyes nervously shifting whenever his attention settled on her. Wide, narrow, wide, narrow. Maybe he wasn't very good at...well, much of anything, but he cared as much as an artificial intelligence could. She could do worse.

She opened her mouth to call him over, but he focused so intently on her that he saved her the trouble of even making a sound. He immediately dropped the sponge he'd been absently squeezing and drifted over to her booth, bobbing unsteadily with a copper carafe in one of his pincers.

“More coffee—“ he _bzzapped_ strangely, “Miss Titties?”

She almost dropped her cup. Definitely a new subroutine. “Andy? Are you all right?”

“Right as rain—” In spite of the chipper tone, he _bzzapped_ again, though he didn't seem to think anything was amiss. “Miss Titties!”

Again, the cup almost flew from her fingers. Not because of Andy, but because of the stupid _haw haw haw_ that could only be—

“Butch?” The diner was supposed to be empty. It was two in the morning! She'd even checked when she came in and hadn't seen anybody. It's why she'd settled here in the first place, instead of staring at the ceiling above her bed with insomnia. The diner was a place where she wouldn't bother anyone, where she could be alone to think, but with Andy here, not _too_ alone. She couldn't even get away from DeLoria's juvenile antics in the middle of the night?

“It wasn't _me_.” His head appeared over the back of one of the other booths, hair all tousled like he'd been sleeping there. He lazily slung one of his arms over it—he wasn't wearing his jacket, for once, which surprised her since she thought it was fused to him by now—and rested his chin on the red vinyl.

“Sure. You were just—what, taking a break from—from—” Why couldn't she come up with anything witty? “From being a jerk?” Not even close to clever.

“I wa—” He stopped to yawn into the back of his hand. “Oh, man. You got any more of that coffee?”

“Get your own!” She clutched her cup possessively to her chest, sloshing some on her vault suit. It only burned a little. Barely hurt at all.

“Miss Titties!” Andy's coffee pot smashed against the floor with a _clang_ as he bobbed toward her in alarm. “Miss Titties, you've burned yourself!”

Butch fell out of the booth laughing.

“Careful, Titties!”

“Shut up, Butch!” She tried to wave off Andy, but he weaved closer, metal parts clacking. “No, I'm fine. Andy, stop—Look! Butch needs coffee!”

Andy hesitated, turning slightly in midair as his processors assessed the situation. She heard a whirring sound from deep inside him. Then he said cheerfully, “Yes, indeed you do, sir! Right away, Mister Titties!”

Butch laughed even harder, rolling onto his side, dangerously close to Andy's thruster flame as he hovered with the dented coffee pot. “Mister—“ he gasped out, “Mister Titties!”

She folded her arms across her chest, where the coffee was starting to get cold. “Forget to program an alternate algorithm for the 'Mister' variable? Or is 'titties' the only thing you can spell?”

“Titties!” He cackled some more, for a lot longer than any sensible person would have deemed necessary, and then collapsed on his back on the floor as his laughter tired itself out. The _ha ha ha_ s got longer, quieter, until he was just breathing with a little 'heh, titties' in between. “Oh, man.”

“God, it's really not that funny.”

He sat up and smirked at her. “So you think it's a _little_ funny?”

“No,” she said primly. “I do not.”

“You're sure.” Andy pressed a cup of coffee into Butch's hand and then zoomed off to make another pot. Butch grinned. “Miss Titties?”

“You're a child.”

He raised his cup in impish salute. “And you're Miss Titties.”

“And you're Mister Titties!”

“Ha! You said titties!”

“I _already_ said titties, you—”

“Said it again!”

“ _Titties_ , then!” She stood and stomped over toward him. They always brought out the worst in each other, the most childish, the most reactionary. Tonight was no exception. “Titties, _titties,_ ** _titties_**!”

“Titties!” He started laughing again, hard enough that he fell over backward and sloshed his coffee all over the floor. “Tit—titties! I can't breathe!”

“Good! I hope your last _word—_ ” He really was starting to wheeze, and he was red in the face, even though he was still grinning. Was he asthmatic? She couldn't remember from the handful of times she'd peeked at his file over the years. “Butch?” He shook his head, still gasp-giggling helplessly. Alarmed, she yelled, “Andy!”

“Yes, Miss Tit—”

“Never mind that, just bring us some water.”

“Yes, Miss Titties!”

Well, _that_ didn't help. A fresh wave of laughter knocked him back again as he tried to sit up. She offered Butch a hand, because helping him seemed like something a reasonable human being would do, but when he took her hand, her foot slid in the coffee he'd spilled. She landed in his lap, and his elbows hit the floor so he wasn't so much sitting as half lying in the puddle he'd made.

His laughter cut off abruptly, although he was still gasping for breath. “Well, Miss—“

“Say it again and I'll brain you.”

“Violet.”

It startled her, his use of her actual real first name. She heard it so seldom. Butch had only ever used it when adults where lurking over his shoulder, spurring him to apologize or make nice, and it always dripped derision when he did. _Violet_ , said with one corner of his mouth turned up in a not-quite-smile, in a voice that was just this side of soft, was something new. It was either unsettling or pleasant; the butterflies in her stomach couldn't seem to reach a consensus about why they were upset.

“You like that, huh?”

She averted her eyes, then defiantly dragged them back to meet his. “Well, it's better than _Nosebleed.”_

“Or Tit—“ She clapped her hand over his mouth. He huffed through his nostrils, tickling her skin with his breath.

“Don't ruin the first nice moment we've ever had.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he agreed. When she didn't take her hand away, he gave her an exaggerated nod. And when she _still_ didn't take her hand away, he licked her palm.

“Ew!” She jerked her hand back. It revealed a shit-eating grin beneath.

“Hey, I gave you a chance to back off. Not my fault if you can't keep your hands off me.”

“Ugh, you _gross_ boy.” She tried to get to her feet, but Vault-Tec issue “casual wear” boots lacked traction. She slipped in the coffee _again_ and fell full across him, chest to chest. Her forehead cracked against his hard enough to make her wince. He tried to either catch her or fend her off, but he reacted too slowly and ended up with his arms loosely wrapped around her waist and the breath, apparently, knocked out of him.

She was struck by the totally irrelevant observation that his breath was minty fresh. His mouth was open with surprise, and his eyes were wide, at least for a couple of seconds. Then his face settled into that teasing expression she knew so well.

“Can't wait for next week, huh?”

Everything that she didn't realize she'd forgotten came crashing back. This stupid farce with him and Andy and _Miss Titties_ made all her problems drop right out of her head, and now he brought it all back with one stupid little sentence. Even when he wasn't actively ruining everything, he still found a way to ruin _everything_. She shoved herself up, away from him.

“You— _you—_ ” She wanted to run off, but nowhere she could go was far enough away. Overnight the vault became a cage instead of her home. If she couldn't run, and she couldn't fight, then...then...oh! She settled for punching Butch in the arm, not as hard as she could, not as hard as she wanted to, but hard enough to hurt him. “You are such a jerk!” She rolled sideways, not caring that she was sitting in lukewarm coffee as long as it meant that no part of her was touching him.

“Ow! What was _that_ for?” He punched her right back, and they both sat there rubbing at their bruised arms. He looked more than a little surprised, and she realized that without the leather jacket to absorb the blow, he'd probably felt that more than she'd meant him to. It didn't make her feel any better.

“This is all just some big joke to you, isn't it? 'Ha ha, I get free sex with a girl!'”

He sat up straight, looking just as pissed off as she felt.

“Oh, yeah, like I really want to get stuck for the rest of my life with some chick who can't even stand me. Sounds like a real good time.”

“The rest of your life!” She scoffed. She hadn't expected him to take his sham marriage that seriously. Only the women would be really _forced_ to. “All _you_ have to do is _make_ the babies. _We're_ the ones who have to do all the work, no matter what we'd rather be doing with our lives. _You_ get to have a career.”

“Barber,” he muttered. She ignored him. He might not like his job that much, but at least he got to do it. She'd seen what it was like for mothers in the vault—they were moms first, and had to fit everything else into their spare time, even work.

“No one would blame you if you moved into your own rooms and never went near your wife again. As long as you got her pregnant first.”

Butch drew back from her, looking—she'd never seen him look like that before.

“I ain't abandoning my kid!” He dragged his fingers through his hair—left streaks of coffee in it, and didn't even notice. “Whoever I get matched up with, we'll do what we gotta do, but no kid of mine is gonna be running around this vault not even knowing who his father is.” A coffee droplet dripped onto his nose, and he realized what he'd done. “Damn it!”

“Here...” She got a cloth napkin from the nearest table and just about threw it at his head, not meeting his eyes as she did so. She had never considered that Butch might have any feelings at all about fatherhood. And she had never thought to wonder if he had any family besides his mom; if anything, she'd assumed he'd had a father who'd died before she was old enough to remember. She couldn't even imagine what it would be like to live with the alternative.

“Thanks,” he said grudgingly, wiping away the coffee.

“Yeah, well. Sorry.”

“Yeah.” He took a comb from somewhere inside his vault suit and started fixing his hair. “So...I thought all girls wanted to have kids. You don't want to be a mom?”

“God, no!” She scrubbed at the wet spot on her chest, and only succeeded in spreading it around. Maybe, someday, if she ever managed to figure out how to deal with all her complicated _feelings_ about parenthood she could do it, and do it well, and might even _want_ to do it. But she couldn't really imagine it happening.

“I want to be a dad someday.” He glared at her, daring her to make fun of him for it. “Do all that dad stuff, throw a ball around and teach him to shave and junk. Just, someday, but not _yet_ , you know?”

“What if it's a daughter?”

“Then I'll teach _her_ to shave.”

That was...kind of nice. She couldn't imagine that Butch would be a _good_ father—he was still Butch, after all—but at least he was willing to try. He was probably going to be a better parent than she was. Best case scenario, she would probably drink herself into oblivion and let her kids run wild.

“Why're you lookin' at me like that?” Butch demanded.

“Just thinking about the next generation of Tunnel Snakes.” She shook her head as if she could physically banish her thoughts. “Where's your jacket, anyway? Don't tell me you're suddenly too mature for all that stuff, what with your impending fatherhood.”

“Once a Tunnel Snake, always a Tunnel Snake.” He said it proudly, and she wondered, not for the first time, how he was even able to keep a straight face. Did he _know_ he was a walking dick joke?

When she failed to react, he jerked his thumb toward the booth he'd been lying in. The jacket was on the vinyl seat, rolled up to form a rough pillow.

“Are you sleeping here?” she asked. He shrugged.

“It's quiet. _Usually_.” He gave her a pointed look, which she ignored. After all, she wasn't the one who had been _shrieking_ with laughter over his childish prank.

“Couldn't sleep in your room?” she asked, and he shrugged.

“Couldn't _you_?”

“Of course. I'm sleeping there right now. You're just dreaming this.”

“Ha! Yeah, right, like _you're_ the girl of my dreams.” He glanced at her coffee-stained chest, pretty obviously about to insult her, but then his mind seemed to go blank. She followed his gaze. Was there something wrong? No, they were just boobs.

Wait, was he staring at her as in— _ogling_ her?

“My eyes are up here!” she snapped. He jerked his head up with a guilty start. Good grief. Yes, she'd filled out a lot over the last few years—it had been a long time since any of the boys had called her Flatsy Cline, anyway—but she had nothing on Christine or Amata.

Butch's eyes gave an exaggerated roll, compensating for the sheepish look he gave her, probably. “Don't get your panties in a bunch.”

“What my panties do is none of your business.”

“You got that right, brainiac.” His eyes raked over her body again, and this time he managed to look as condescending as he'd meant to the first time. “Like I'd ever be interested in _your_ panties.” He dropped his voice and stage-muttered, “Probably big old granny ones, anyhow.”

“You stupid jerk!” The nerve! Like _anyone_ had anything besides Vault-Tec approved underwear? She shoved him, pretty hard this time. “Will you just _go away_?”

“I was here first!” He pushed her, so hard she flopped over on her side in the coffee puddle. Furious, she kicked him in the knee.

This was familiar territory, at least. And it felt _so good_ to be an immature asshole for once. She spent way too much of her life _not_ punching all her problems into a bloody mess. But as far as immaturity went, and punching, for that matter, Butch had a lot more practice than she did. That wouldn't stop her from trying to hold her own against him. She was so mad, not even at him, but just at _everything—_ the unfairness, the pressure, the looming loss of what little freedom the vault allowed—that she felt like throwing a tantrum. She could think of nobody better to throw one _at_.

“ _You were here first._ ” She shoved him. “You shouldn't even be here! What's the matter, is your mom so drunk she passed out in your bed? Couldn't sleep in hers because it smelled too much like scotch and vomit?”

“You _shut up about my mom_!”

He didn't shove her, or punch her, both of which she would have been prepared for. Instead he _tackled_ her, each fist wrapped tight around a handful of her vault suit, and she fell back until the back of her head cracked against the floor. Before she could brace herself, he lifted her up and slammed her down again.

“Stop—” She tried to push him away, but he outweighed her by kind of a lot. And he was as mad as she'd ever seen him.

“Don't talk about my mom!” He drew back to punch her, and there was a part of her that welcomed it. She hadn't fought with him, physically, since the day of the G.O.A.T., but she still remembered the rush that had come from just beating the _shit_ out of each other that day. It had erased her worries about the test, anyway. She stared up at him, defiant, palms flat against his chest as she just barely held him off from crushing her under him. He hesitated, and then, with a frustrated grunt, smashed his fist against the ground next to her, instead of into her face. “Just _don't_ , okay?”

“Why?” Why was he not punching her? “Does it bother you that your mom's a—“

“I said can it, twerp!”

“Are you going to make me?”

“Are you _trying_ to pick a fight?” He should still be angry, but that was dissipating in the face of his confusion. She closed her fingers around a double handful of his vault suit, yanked him down, and then, regretting having brought him in closer, shoved him away.

“He finally gets it! I always knew you were a little slow, but sometimes talking to you is just _sad_.”

Something twisted in his face, and she could tell he _wanted_ to hit her—and yet, he didn't. Instead, he arched his body up and back, until he was resting on his hands and knees, no part of them touching except her hands on his chest. She clung tighter and _shook_ him as hard as she could, until he knocked her hands away.

“Quit it! I'm not gonna fight you. I don't want...” He broke off and shook his head, just as frustrated as as she was.

“Don't want to get your ass kicked by a girl, _again_?” she suggested.

“Pfft. You never kicked my ass.”

“Only because you always had your mouth-breather friends to back you up. You couldn't take me by yourself.” He _could_ , she knew. He was Butch, and she was the vault nerd, and there was no outsmarting him in a fistfight. But there was a tightness inside her, like a pressure cooker with the lid clamped shut, that would only be relieved when her knuckles were bruised and bloody.

“Kid, you hit like my grandma,” Butch said derisively. “And she's been dead for thirty years. Why are you acting so weird, anyway? You're just gonna get yourself in for a world of hurt, for no good reason.”

“It's better than sitting around waiting to get—“ The word stuck in her throat. She couldn't say it. She especially couldn't say it to _him_.

“Waiting to get...married?” he asked, slowly, with a puzzled frown.

“That's step one.”

“Get knocked up?” he guessed, with an even deeper frown. She fixed her gaze on a spot over his shoulder, all too aware that he was looming over her exactly like someone else was going to in just a few days.

“That's step _three_.”

“Then...oh.” He scrambled to his feet very suddenly, pulling her up along with him before she could think to argue. “All right, let's do this.”

“What?”

“ _Hit_ me,” he said, as if it should have been obvious. “Come on, Grandma, let's see what you've got.”

She didn't wait for a second invitation.

Violet knew how to make a fist, and how to apply the force of the punch without breaking her own hand. That was about _all_ she knew. But this kind of thing wasn't really about facts and theory, anyway. She drew back her fist and swung it at his face.

And all of a sudden, she was stumbling forward into empty space, and he was somehow standing _behind_ her, laughing.

“Gotta be faster than that, dweeb!”

She spun around and swung at him again, and he danced back, just out of reach.

“Ooh, close! I almost felt the breeze from that one.”

“Hold still!” she yelled, and he laughed harder.

“Why would I do that?” He fended off a body blow, and gave her a shove that sent her way off balance, giving him plenty of time to get out of range again.

“You jerk, you told me to hit you!”

“Oh, is _that_ what you're trying to do? I couldn't tell.”

He ducked another wild swing; as he came up, he drove his shoulder into her abdomen with enough force to actually lift her off the ground. All the air rushed out of her, and she went sprawling across the floor, stunned.

“Holy shit, are you okay?”

Her lungs made a squeaking sound as she tried to draw some air in. She shook her head.

“You're _way_ tinier than Wally,” Butch said, by way of apology.

She breathed, and breathed again. It _really_ hurt—but she wanted to do it again.

“Just—wait a minute,” she gasped. “We're not finished.”

“Are you serious? I just knocked you flat on your ass.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, I think my dead grandma would have put up a better fight.”

He was _such_ an asshole! But...he wasn't wrong.

Unexpectedly, she found herself on the verge of tears. Butch stepped back from her like she was a reactor about to go critical.

“Hey—no—I didn't mean that. You fight better than a dead lady, okay? You just need more practice.”

“I'm never going to _get_ more practice!” She managed to keep the words from turning into a wail, but there was still an alarming quiver in her voice. “I'll never get to do _anything_ stupid and self-destructive. My life is over.”

“You want stupid and destructive? Why didn't you say so?” He offered her a hand. “Come on, Nosebleed. Nothing's over yet.”

Hesitantly, she put her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet. She had just been thinking about doing stuff on her own, but if anyone knew stupid…

“What are we going to do?” she asked. He shrugged.

“What do you want to do?”

“Everything! Everything I've never done before, which is—everything.”

Butch grinned. “I like the way you think, kid, but let's start small. Ever smoked a cigarette?”

“You can't smoke in a vault. It would wreak havoc on the air filtration system—“ He was laughing at her again. “Okay, screw it. Light me up.”

He still had her hand. It gave her another unsettled flutter in the pit of her stomach when he pulled her over to his booth, and his jacket.

“Hang on, I've got a pack in here somewhere.”

He rifled through his pockets one-handed, still holding on to her. Did he think she was going to try to run away? Cautiously, she gave her hand a tug. He released her immediately, with so little attention he might have forgotten she was there, except that he then threw a smile over his shoulder.

“Found 'em.” He showed her the pack, and then deftly flicked his wrist so that a single cigarette popped halfway out of the package. He held it out to her.

“Show-off.” But she took it, carefully holding it like a pencil. Butch took one for himself—it looked natural in his hand, and even more so in his mouth. She tried to imitate his stance as he lit first his, then hers.

He took a deep drag and let it out slowly, and then cocked his head at her, waiting.

Okay, she could be as cool as Butch, no problem. She closed her eyes and took in a lungful of smoke—and _instantly_ felt her whole body reject it.

It felt like sucking on fire! Actually, that was exactly what it _was_. Why had she thought this was a good idea? She doubled over, coughing helplessly, head swimming as tears streamed from her eyes.

Butch laughed, but she felt his hands on her back, guiding her to a seat so she wouldn't fall on her face.

“You'll be all right, don't worry. Just give it a minute.” He couldn't stop laughing, but he also kept a hand on her back, steadying her with his touch. She had no idea what to think about that.

“Why—” Her voice came out as a croak, and for a minute she couldn't get anything else out through the coughing fit. Finally, she managed to ask, “Why would anyone do this to themselves on _purpose_?”

“I dunno, it's better after you get used to it.”

“Get used to it? _How_?”

He pulled away from her, and she realized he was still working on his cigarette like it was no big deal. She had dropped hers, but the diner wasn't burning down around her, so it was probably okay.

“How do you get used to anything?” He took another puff and tipped his head back, smirking. When he opened his mouth, the smoke escaped in a perfect ring shape.

“I have to try that! Give me another cigarette,” she demanded.

“Gee, I don't know,” he said with pretended thoughtfulness. “Seems like this might be too much for you to handle. Maybe we should have started with something a little smaller. I can show you how to make a calculator spell out BOOBS.”

“Butch! Give me a cigarette!”

“What's it worth to you?” he asked, in a tone that told her they were about to have a major difference of opinion over something or other.

“What's it worth to _you_ not to get a punch in the nose?”

“You already tried that, remember?” Smarmy jackass.

“Fine, then,” she snapped. “I don't need you. I can go find my own cigarettes.”

“You won't, though.” His words froze her in place, halfway out of the booth. There was nothing mocking in his tone; it was a simple statement of fact. “You're a little Goody Two-Shoes,” he added, calmly. “You won't do anything fun all by yourself.”

And again, he was right. She wasn't about to tell him so...but she settled back into the booth, and he gave her a smart-ass grin.

“You have a suggestion?” she asked warily.

“Yeah. I _suggest_ you start thinking up something nice to say.”

“To _you_?” she blurted.

“Of course not to me!” He rolled his eyes. “What do you think, you hurt my feelings or something? I'm crying into my pillow every night because the little pipsqueak doesn't want to be my friend? No, I have to get something from my room, and if you're gonna be an asshole to my mom, you can't come with me. Okay?”

That wouldn't be easy for her. She didn't like Butch's mom any more than she liked him. She'd never exchanged three friendly words with the woman. Or even three unfriendly words. With so few people in the vault, it was hard for anyone to really be a stranger, but if anyone was, it was Ellen DeLoria. At least with Butch, there was a history. With his mom, she really didn't know if she could think of anything to say.

“I won't be an asshole,” she said. Violet didn't have to like her to be polite. And she'd probably be asleep, anyway, or passed out, so there was nothing to worry about.

“You sure about that?”

“ _Yes_ , god! _What a lovely home you have_ ,” she said in her prissiest suck-up voice. “ _I just love what you've done with your hair._ It's not that hard.” He still didn't look satisfied. “You really care about your mom, huh?”

“'Course I care about my mom. What kind of question is that?”

 _The kind of question you ask about the vault drunk?_ was the exact wrong thing to say, so she didn't say it. They'd somehow managed to keep this magical bubble of camaraderie from bursting so far. Maybe they hadn't come down with a case of warm fuzzies for each other, and maybe a couple of punches had been thrown, but this was a lot closer to friendliness than their usual hostility. Why ruin it?

So she shrugged, even though she couldn't help averting her eyes and ruined any real chance of looking nonchalant. Maintaining unaffected cool wasn't really in her skill set. Hopefully he wouldn't notice the deficiency and pry too much. “Just a question.”

He studied his half-finished cigarette for a second, and then held it out to her.

“You got a real problem with that smart mouth of yours. Why don't you use it for something else?”

She felt sudden heat creeping into her face, even though, from the look of him, he was really just talking about smoking.

“I don't—I don't want your spit,” she stammered.

“Scared I've got cooties?” He held it closer, filtered end threatening to touch her. Without thinking about it, she took a step back. Brows rising, he smirked and jabbed it her direction again. Of course. He was still him, how could he not? She flinched, then glared at him for making her jerk away. “Jeez, kid, I'm actually, like, _embarrassed_ for you. I stopped believing in cooties in first grade.”

That hadn't stopped him from giving her wet willies, crowing about infecting her with them all the way through fourth, as she recalled. “Knock it off.”

“Thought you wanted to be a _bad_ girl.” Jab, jab, jab—each time a little nearer with the dampened tip of his cigarette. “Never gonna get anywhere with this rebellion thing if you can't handle a little spit.”

“Stop! It's not about cooties, you jerk! I don't want _your_ spit—in _my_ mouth!”

He straightened up, and there was a flash of something—hurt pride, maybe. Then he leaned in close, the cigarette forgotten, so close she lost sight of everything but the way his mouth turned up at the corner.

“Well, like I said...” His voice, so low and rough, made her skin prickle. Something about it felt vaguely dangerous, but in a new way, a not-whiny-Butch way. It unsettled her. Like watching a good horror movie in the dark when the music ratcheted up. Was she scared? She wasn't sure. She just knew it was...weird. Uncomfortable, and weird, and new, and interesting, and even though she kind of wanted to study it, she _hated it_. “You're never gonna get anywhere if you can't handle a little spit.”

To distract from this unfamiliar strangeness settling on her spine, she glared harder. But he was so near, she had to tilt her head up to do it properly; a tactical error she was too proud and too stubborn to correct, even if it made her look like she _wanted_ him to kiss her. He smirked at her—because he didn't know any other facial expressions, apparently—and brought his hand up toward her shoulder like he planned on putting his arm around her.

Instead, he shoved her.

With a startled screech, she went over backward and fell into the booth. She scowled up at Butch as he barked out another mocking laugh, the jerk.

“I'm so glad _you're_ having a good time,” she grumbled.

“Oh, I'm sorry, did you want a little sugar?”

“Ew, no!”

“Really? 'Cause you kinda looked like this.” He formed his lips into an exaggerated pout and fluttered his eyelashes at her, making kissing sounds in the air. “Oh, Butch,” he said in falsetto, lips still puckered, “Take me now!”

“Not even if you were the last guy on earth,” she said firmly. “And there were no women. And no robots.”

He ignored her and continued noisily smooching the air, and she wondered if it was too late to punch him.

“Thanks for reminding me what a creep you are,” she said. “I was almost ready to forget I hated you, for a minute there.”

“Yeah, we wouldn't want to forget that.” He grinned at her, not offended in the least, and she felt a momentary urge to thank him for real. There was something liberating about brutal honesty and forthright mutual antipathy.

“Move,” she said, and he stepped aside without a word to let her out of the booth. He stubbed out his cigarette on the table as she clambered to her feet. It left a mark, but she didn't chide him for it. What did she care if he damaged vault property? It had always seemed important to keep the vault nice and tidy, but what for? Future generations?

Butch followed the direction of her gaze.

“You got a problem?” he asked, like he expected her to say something about the ring of ash and scorched plastic.

“No. Actually...” Hesitantly, she reached out toward his abandoned coffee cup and bumped it with two fingers until it toppled off the edge of the table. It didn't shatter, but a chip came out of the handle. Butch burst out laughing.

“Ooh, look out for this one! She's a rebel!”

He kept laughing as she scooped up the cup with both hands and straightened, glaring. He stopped when she hurled it to the ground with all her strength. This time, it smashed beyond all hope of repair.

“Oh, shit!” He almost sounded impressed, but she didn't have time to stop and analyze his tone because he grabbed her by the wrist and ran with her out into the hall. “Come on, I'm not getting busted for broken dishes!”

“You have something bigger in mind?”

“You kidding? Of course I do.”

He pulled her around a corner, and the flattened themselves against the wall just as Andy's voice floated after them, full of electronic concern.

“Are you quite all right, Miss Titties?”

Butch snickered. Violet didn't. But she had to admit to herself that she was starting to find titties _slightly_ amusing.

“Don't worry. He knows one of us was smashing up the place, but as long as he can't see us, he won't do anything about it.”

“Do you spend a lot of your time harassing poor Andy?”

“Oh, sure, _now_ it's 'poor Andy.' I'm not the one who gave him a mess to clean up, y'know.” He glanced down at the leather jacket still dangling from his hand, and back at her. Then, with a shrug, he thrust it at her. “Here, take this.”

“What? Why?”

“If you want to be bad, you have to look good doing it. I'm not _giving_ it to you,” he added quickly. “I want it back as soon as we're done. But just for tonight, you're an honorary Tunnel Snake.”

“The fulfillment of a lifelong dream,” she said dryly. But she took the jacket and slipped it on over her vault suit. It was heavier than she expected, and warm, and it smelled like Butch, like his aftershave and the gunk he put in his hair. She wasn't sure she liked it, but she did feel a little more daring just having it on. Outside clothing wasn't _officially_ off-limits, but in practice, it was vanishingly rare for anyone but Butch and his delinquent friends to wear anything that hadn't been provided by Vault-Tec.

Butch was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before, which was just plain silly because it was _his_ jacket. She struck a pose she must have seen him do a thousand times, slouching back with one foot braced against the wall for balance.

“Yeah,” she said, imitating his vocal swagger and the slightly silly accent she knew he'd lifted from all those old movies he liked. “Yeah, this is pretty cool, right?”

“Pretty...” He shook himself. “I mean, not as cool as a _real_ Tunnel Snake. But you'll do.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was hard to sneak around in a vault, especially for someone who didn't have much practice at it. Footsteps echoed in the narrow metal corridors, and there was no way to muffle the sound of the doors. But no one else wandered the halls at nearly three in the morning, not even security.

Butch strode ahead of her to open the door to the rooms he shared with his mom. She tried to follow him in quietly, but as it turned out, she shouldn't have bothered. Ellen was still up, pacing around the main room with a mostly-drained drink in her hand. She sloshed the remainder on the floor when she spun and saw him, but either didn't notice or care.

“Butchie!” She threw her arms around his neck. He let her, but Violet saw him go a bit stiff. “I'm sorry, honey, really I am. You know I didn't mean what I said.”

“Aw, Mom, it's okay...” His posture loosened and he hugged her, which wasn't something Violet had ever expected to see. “Hey, don't cry.”

From what she knew about the woman, it shouldn't have been surprising that she started weeping harder instead, but in Violet's experience adults were usually...well, more _together_ than this. The impulse to look elsewhere settled on her and she found herself taking a keen interest in an empty vase, just to cut the awkwardness. It's not that she thought parents didn't have feelings, but weren't they supposed to be stable? Weren't they supposed to deal with their own stuff and not put it on their kids?

Butch didn't push his mom away or try to squirm out of her grip, but he shot Violet a warning glare when her eyes drifted back to his. She put her hands up in an _I didn't say anything_ gesture.

“When I woke up and you were gone...I thought—”

The skin between Butch's eyebrows pinched. If Violet never thought she'd see Butch hugging another human being, she _especially_ thought she'd never see his face pricked with _guilt_. He whispered something fiercely, but in a voice so low she couldn't make it out. Then he cleared his throat. “C'mon, Mom, we've got company.”

Ellen DeLoria sniffed once into Butch's shoulder, and drew herself up. She turned a smile Violet's direction—watery, but sincere.

“Violet honey, hi,” she said warmly, like tears weren't still gathering at the corners of her eyes. Like she hadn't been melting down from the moment they set foot in the room. Violet smiled back politely, but it was tight and uncomfortable. Thank goodness Butch's mother wasn't sober enough to notice.

“Hi—“ she stumbled over the urge to say _Mrs._ Ellen was the only parent in the vault who'd never been married, and that was something of an unspoken scandal, so it threw off her whole script. But she couldn't bring herself to say _Ms_. because that felt insulting somehow, and she couldn't bring herself to say _Ellen_ because that felt disrespectful. So she settled for a graceless, “Um. Hi.”

"You two kids being good?”

Not...exactly the kind of question she expected from someone whose son brought a girl home at three in the morning, but she was glad the conversation wasn't turning in the direction of _What are you doing out of bed at this hour?_ and _I am going to tell your father about this!_ The direction it would have gone if Butch were Amata instead.

"Oh, um..." She wasn't sure Butch was ever what anyone would call good, and even if he was they surely weren't capable of being good _together_. She decided a white lie would be best. "Yes, ma'am."

"Ma'am? I'm not _that_ old!" She said it with the bright smile of a hostess at a dinner party, and made an expansive, incomprehensible gesture that knocked her into Butch.

"Okay, Mom," he said with what was almost a note of warning in his voice as he flung an arm around her waist to hold her steady.

"Well, I'm _not_."

"We know, don't worry. You're tired, though. You should go to bed, okay?" He tried to wheel her around toward the bedroom, but she shook him off.

"I want to talk to your friend." She smiled at Violet again. "Butchie never brings friends over. He thinks I'll embarrass him."

"Mom!”

"Don't worry, I won't drag out the baby pictures."

"Ma, you don't _have_ any baby pictures." He was starting to lose his patience, but there was still something gentle in the way he handled her. She wondered if she would have been as careful with her own mom if she'd had the chance.

"You two behave, Violet honey," she said it like it was a compound word: Violet-honey. Ellen wobbled while Butch started steering her toward what she guessed was her room. “I love you, Butchie.”

He glanced at Violet and sort of half-mumbled, “I love you, too,” turning his face away to make it clear that the words were only for his mom.

“You're a good kid,” she said firmly. “You know that, right? And you forgive me?”

"Yeah, of course, I already said." He gave her a winning smile, the kind that could have gotten him out of a lot of trouble over the years if he had ever bothered to use it instead of just yelling and punching things. "But if you really want to make it up to me..." He waited expectantly. His mom threw an assessing look in Violet's direction, then frowned a little uncertainly at Butch.

"I shouldn't let you..." The frown melted away. "Well, I guess you are celebrating. Bottom drawer, under my green scarf."

"Aw, you're the best, Mom." He gave her a slight squeeze, and then froze up as if suddenly remembering he was being watched. "Come on, it's late. You should get to bed." He led her out of the room. Leaving Violet alone in a stranger's home.

Too nervous to stand still, she wandered over to the bookshelf just to give herself something to do. There were a couple of battered paperbacks, some old magazines, a few school books Butch should have returned after graduation but obviously never had, and of course comic books. Everybody had comic books.

She was flipping through _Manta-Man vs. the Card Shark_ when he returned, with a bottle of vodka in his hand. She should have figured as much, but she still almost dropped her book in surprise and squeaked, "Booze?"

"No, lighter fluid," he said with an incredulous, mocking expression, " _Yeah_ , booze. Of _course_ , booze. What'd you think, we were gonna have a sewing circle and I was gettin' my knitting needles?"

Violet opened her mouth to correct him—that sewing circles were about sewing, not knitting—but thought better of it and snapped it shut.

"What's the matter, losin' your nerve?"

"No." It came out as a whisper. She cleared her throat. "I've just never..." She looked at the bottle again, and words failed her.

"Never had a drink?" he prodded. "That's the _point_ , ya dope."

"But..." She'd heard stories about guys getting girls drunk to lower their defenses. Even though she didn't _think_ Butch would do anything like that. More likely he would just let her make an idiot out of herself and then hold it over her head for the rest of her life—which was reason enough not to trust him with something that would compromise her judgment and response time.

But she also remembered the way he and the others used to harass Amata. Nothing had ever come of it, and they'd laid off once they got bored, but still. She was, understandably, reluctant in the face of their weird new found truce-thing. Could she trust him to have matured so much in a few short years? Enough that he wouldn't hurt her, or humiliate her the first chance he got?

"Well?" he prompted. "This is good stuff. Mom's stash is _way_ better than mine."

"I'm not—I'm not sure I want to."

"More for me, then," he said with a shrug. "You can just run along home. Organize your stamp collection or whatever."

"I'm not a philatelist!" She watched his brow furrow in confusion, then settle into shocked amusement as he evidently concluded that philately had something to do with fellatio. "It means stamp collector! God!"

"Man, you are a sad little nerd." He shook his head. "I dunno if there's any hope for you."

Violet stared at the bottle in his hand and stiffened her resolve. So she'd never had a drink, so what? She'd be—gulp—pregnant soon, and even after that was over, she'd have to be totally responsible all the time. If she didn't try it now, when would she be able to? On her deathbed, maybe, and that was no place to develop a zest for life.

"All right," she said slowly. "All right, let's do it." She looked around. "Here?"

"What are you, nuts? If you ralph, I don't want it all over my bed." She blinked at that, the idea that he thought she meant in his room, on his bed, like they were friends sitting around shooting the shit instead of adversaries in the middle of an uneasy truce held together by stupid mutual decisions, bubble gum and a prayer. "I got a place in mind."

"Is this a place we'll get in trouble for being in?"

"Why," he leaned in toward her, not quite menacing, but not quite innocently teasing, either, "you gonna squeal?"

"No!"

"Then what're you worried about?"

* * *

Instead of going anywhere they could make any trouble, he stopped outside the men's room.

"Too much coffee?" She was impatient now to get on with it, before she lost her nerve. She didn't have time for a pee break.

"If you want to help, you can come in with me."

What? Help with what? In the _men's room_?

"No way!" she blurted, and he laughed.

"Okay, Miss Rebel, you can go in the women's. Go grab as much toilet paper as you can carry."

"What for?" she asked slowly. "What are you planning?"

"Nothing much. I just thought the overseer's office could use some redecorating, that's all." He said it so casually, she almost didn't get what he meant for a second.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked. He rolled his eyes.

"Eating all your vegetables is a _good_ idea. This?" He gave her a cocky grin. "This is a _great_ idea."

"But we'll have to get past the security offices to get there. _And_ to get back out. We'll get caught." She'd wanted to shake things up, but there was a difference between having some fun, and making a really bad decision.

"So what if we do get caught?" Butch asked. "Bet you've never spent a night in lockup."

"No, and I don't want to start now!"

"Oh, it's not so bad. It's not like they stick you in some dungeon with a torture chamber and all that. Actually, the beds are really nice."

"That's not what I'm worried about!" Her father would be so disappointed in her if she was arrested—while drunk— _with Butch_.

But maybe they could make it in and out without getting caught. Butch had practice at this kind of thing, and she wasn't totally hopeless. Right?

He held the vodka bottle out to her.

"Want a shot for courage?"

"You first," she said hesitantly. She did want to drink, but it would be better if she worked her way up to it.

Butch unscrewed the top and took a healthy swig, grimacing.

"Oh, that's good." He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and made a face.

"It is?" He really didn't look like he was enjoying it.

"You don't drink it for the taste. Here." He held it out to her again. This time, she took it.

She got ready to toss it back like he had, but he put his hand over hers to stop her before she could bring it to her lips.

"Don't try to drink the whole bottle at once, huh? It'll be the cigarette all over again." Then, as he seemed to feel he was being too helpful, he yanked his hand away and added, "I told you, I don't want your barf all over me."

Gingerly, she raised the bottle. The rim was still wet, and the liquid felt strange—kind of tingly—on her lips. Or maybe she imagined that. On her tongue it was cool, then hot, but down her throat it was _fire_. The same sharp, sparkling burn that came with cleaning a wound with alcohol, except this spiraled down into her chest.

She coughed, but only a little, and took another, larger gulp just to spite her throat. Then one more. Hell, if she was going to do this, she was going to do it all the way, goddamn it.

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” Butch snatched the bottle out of her hands before she chug half of it. “Barf, remember?”

“I'm okay,” she gasped out, then cleared her throat a few times to relieve the burning ache. Except she wasn't. Not totally. Her eyes felt wiggly. She was—she nearly giggled at the realization— _t_ _ipsy_. Already! Was that even possible? Or was it all in her head? “I can handle another drink.”

He looked at her, amused but wary. “Yeah? What happened to not wanting my spit in your mouth?”

“It is a woman's prerogative to change her mind,” she said solemnly, stumbling over _prerogative_ just a tad and completely ignoring the way Butch's eyes widened. She read that in a book once. She couldn't remember which one, but she'd borrowed it from Amata. “Besides, alcohol is sterile.”

“Good point.” He took another deep swig. Not fair!

“Vodka hog,” she accused, and then giggled. Vod-ka-hog.

“What? You had a lot. I have to catch up.” She tried to grab the bottle, and he held it out of her reach. “Nope, nuh-uh. You give it a minute, it's gonna hit you even harder.”

“But I want it _now_!” She made another grab for it, and he held it up above his head.

Gosh, he was tall. She reached up as high as she could and hooked her hand around his elbow, trying to drag his arm down. He just transferred the bottle to the other hand.

“You want it?” he taunted.

“Give it to me!”

“' _Oooh,'”_ he said in a high-pitched voice, really laying on the breathy lust, _“Butch, give it to me! I want it!'_ ”

She jumped as high as she could and made a grab for the bottle. Naturally she missed, and naturally, he laughed at her. For all that they were _almost_ getting along, and for all that this felt more like his version of playful teasing rather than true meanness, he was still acting like the big bully he'd always been. Just a milder version of it.

“How's the weather down there?” he asked casually.

She glared at him, as best she could since he seemed to be wavering unsteadily before her eyes. Oh, no, wait, that was her. Was this what it was like to be drunk?

“Oh...I don't...feel so...” She grabbed him by the front of his vault suit and let her head drop until her forehead rested on his chest.

“Oh, no, not on me, not on me! Get to a toilet!” He put his arms around her and dragged her into the bathroom.

And while he was distracted, she yanked the bottle out of his hand and pulled free of his hold.

Triumphantly, she threw her head back and gulped down another helping while his brain took its time catching up with what his eyes saw.

“Hey!”

She got what she wanted, so she didn't bother fighting him when he lunged for the bottle, just offered it with a cheeky grin.

“You'll be sorry when you're horking your guts up,” he warned, clutching the bottle tight in his fist. All she could do was grin serenely at him. She felt warm all over, and everything was good.

“Horking?” She hiccuped. “That's not a word.”

“Sounds like something somebody's who's never horked their guts up would say.” It was kind of nice how he tried to be a bad influence while simultaneously taking care of her. What a weird turn the night had taken.

“You don't have to—“ another hiccup, “—worry about me, Butch.”

“I'm not worried about you, I'm worried about my jacket.”

She swayed nearer to him and reached out to pat him on the cheek before she realized what she was doing. “Okay.” Her fingers caught a tangle of his hair and sort of poked at his eye as she tried to correct the pat to something less friendly. He grabbed her by the wrist and moved her hand back to her waist.

“Watch the hair.”

“Why, is it going to do something?” She giggled. Then she looked down at his hand still holding hers. Probably just to stop her from poking him again, but he wasn't hurting her, and that was… “I don't get it.”

“You are _so_ drunk.” He turned away from her and killed the last third of the bottle. She wondered if he regretted it, as it clearly became a struggle to keep it down, but he played it off with a smile even as it made his eyes water.

“Careful, Butch.” She couldn't even tell if she was being a smart-ass, or sincere. “If you ralph on me, it'll still mess up your jacket.”

“I'm not gonna ralph. I know how to drink.” He wobbled. It was definitely him this time. “Beer, anyway.”

“Wait, you don't drink liquor?” If he wasn't used to it, then neither of them knew what their limits were. This could turn into a real disaster.

“I've _had_ it before. Not a whole—half a bottle in five minutes.” He looked with some surprise at the empty bottle in his hand, then looked back at her with a slight frown. “My mom thinks we're going together.”

“Going where?” She blinked. “Going _steady_?”

“That's what it used to mean if a guy gave a girl his jacket. It's why she gave us the hooch. To celebrate.”

“Ha! Yeah, right. Celebrate.” As if the two of them pairing up together would be cause for celebration. As if she would ever willingly go on a date with him. As if he'd ever even _ask._

She pulled away from him, trying to force herself back to alertness. They were in the men's room together for a reason. They were on a mission! And they needed every roll of toilet paper they could handle.


	3. Chapter 3

They made it to the overseer's office, skulking along, whispering and giggling and shushing each other, dropping rolls of toilet paper as they went and farcically dropping more as they struggled to pick them up. But they made it.

By the time they got there, Violet was starting to feel a lot less drunk. She wasn't sure if it was just an illusion, or if she was really sobering up, but Butch seemed fine, so she probably was, too. It was a little disappointing, honestly, but she should probably count herself lucky that she wasn't passing out or throwing up.

They each took a roll and started covering the furniture. She didn't try to get too artistic about it, but Butch decided to go all out, climbing up on top of things to hang long streamers from all the lights and the fire suppressant sprinklers. She kind of had to admire the effect, but at the same time, she found herself quickly bored with the work.

There was a computer terminal on the desk that should have been childishly easy to hack into, but she found she couldn't focus on the code and got herself locked out on the fourth attempt. Maybe she should have asked Butch to do it. If his little stunt with Andy was any indication, he must have hidden depths when it came to programming.

She tried snooping through the desk drawers instead. Almost everything in the vault was recorded electronically, but there were a few handwritten notes, crumpled reminders of errands to run, a book of ration coupons half used up—and a photograph of his wife with Amata in her arms. She swallowed hard. Mrs. Almodovar was a blurred spot in her memory, a warm voice and a gentle hand, the flash of her earrings, the smell of her soap. She, and a lot of others, had died when mole rats somehow tunneled into one of the storage rooms when Violet was three. She put the picture back where it belonged and closed the drawer.

The drawer under the first one proved more fruitful. Beneath a stack of Vault-Tec notepads scribbled with lines, letters and numbers that made no sense at a glance, she found an almost full bottle of bourbon tucked away. The Overseer liked a little nip during the work day, huh? She popped the cap off and took a gulp, thinking it'd be like the vodka. Alcohols couldn't be all that different from each other, right?

It went down smoother, but where vodka tasted like nothing but alcohol, bourbon had a blend of flavors her tongue wasn't ready for. She couldn't imagine _any_ tongue being ready for the taste of wood and dirt and...something else she couldn't identify, but that seemed a little moldy. She gagged, eyes watering, and coughed a few times.

Butch took a break from spelling out “U SUCK” on the floor in toilet paper, and glanced at her.

“Hey! You're holding out on me.”

She offered him the bottle, still trying to coax her coughing to settle down. “The Overseer's holding out on both of us.”

Butch swept the bourbon out of her hands and took a drink. He didn't sputter the way she had, but his eyes definitely turned glossy, and his voice shifted lower, rougher when he said, “Smooth.”

Violet turned her attention back to the drawer and its cryptic notepads, curiosity piqued by what looked like secret code. While Butch nursed the bourbon, she leaned against the side of the desk and lifted one out to flip through it.

Each page was separated into a couple of hand-drawn columns. The first had two initials that seemed to bear no relation to each other and a number beneath them—a different set on every page. Some said “18,” some said “21,” one even went as high as “23.” The second columns were all filled by lists of initials, at least a dozen of them in a long line. What did they mean? She couldn't get her brain together enough to figure it out.

“What'd you find?” Violet froze when Butch's chin came to rest on her shoulder so he could peer over and look at the notepad. The hand that wasn't full of bourbon bottle settled on the desk beside her so that he could steady himself. He probably didn't mean anything by it, but it was unnerving to have him that close, drunkenly half-draped over her nevertheless.

“I don't know,” she croaked out, then swallowed harshly to try and soothe her suddenly dry throat.

His other arm came around her with the bottle, nudging her hand. “Trade ya.”

She took the bottle and gratefully took another swig to settle her nerves. He took the notepad and rolled away from her back, leaning up against the desk himself. Where he'd been almost-pressed up against her, her skin tingled, even through all the layers of vault suit and leather jacket.

It wasn't exactly like the tingles from making out with somebody, or being close to somebody she liked, there was a top layer of discomfort that she had a hard time shaking off. There were some of the nice tingles too, too, buried under the feeling of unease, and that was confusing. But on the whole, it was just too startling, too invasive.

But that was stupid, she chided herself. Right? Butch didn't mean for it to bother her, so why was she bothered? They'd already fought tonight, and ended up basically in each other's laps in the diner while they sniped and argued. Why did _this_ get to her? Just because he'd touched her without permission, without warning. Like someone else was soon going to be touching her without permission and without warning, but worse.

She took another gulp of bourbon and almost liked it this time.

When she looked at Butch again, it was from behind the cover of the bottle. He swayed, or maybe she was doing the swaying, and frowned at the notepad in drunken contemplation.

“I think this is about us,” he said slowly, with a slight slur.

“Us?”

“Not _us_ , us,” he said sharply, like she was stupid. “The vault 'us.' Those are all our initials, see?”

The bottle clattered unevenly when she set it down, but she kept it from falling off the desk. Barely. “Let me see.”

Yeah, he was right. AA for Amata Almodovar, SM for Susie Mack. A different girl for every page, and each one with a number underneath. The second column made a lot more sense now; the initials matched up with the boys. She counted up one of those lists and found they corresponded to the number on the other side of the page. All right, so these were the number of potential matches for each girl. That made sense. But...

With her thought processes dulled, it took a few seconds to realize the numbers were far too high to match with _just_ the male vault dwellers under twenty-five.

The Overseer was considering arranged marriages between older residents with girls her age? She suddenly felt the need to sit down, so she did. Right on the floor.

“Hey.” Butch nudged her with his foot. “You passing out?”

“No—don't you know what this means?”

“Sure!” He hesitated. “But, uh, maybe you should say what _you_ think it means, just so we're sure we're on the same page.”

She handed the pad back to him. “How many of those initials belong to teenagers?”

“What the hell are you—“ he scanned the top page. His brain took a little longer than hers did to put the pieces together, but he wasn't a complete dunce, so he came to the same realization. “Oh, gross!”

“Yeah.” Not that she thought people should turn into sexless robots after they hit thirty, but, good lord, their teacher was on there. Did he know about this? Would he go along with it if he knew?

“Wait a minute, you have to be wrong about this,” Butch said. He ran his finger down the first page with a frown of deep concentration, and finally shook his head. “This has to be something else.”

“Why do you say that?”

“'Cause I'm not on it.”

“What? Yes, you are.” She took the notepad out of his hand and studied it carefully, sure he'd just missed something, but sure enough, the first page, AA, had no corresponding BD in the column of potential mates.

She looked up at Butch, almost guiltily, and he turned away from her to seize the bottle from the desk, but she still caught sight of what was written on his face. Anger and confusion, and maybe some hurt, too, that he did his best to drown under a tide of bourbon. He drank it too fast, and it made him cough until he was red in the face. He slammed it back onto the desk in a fit of frustration, sloshing half its remaining contents across his toilet paper garlands.

“Maybe it's just a mistake,” she said, knowing it wasn't. She turned the other pages and found BD on each one, just...not on Amata's. The Overseer didn't think Butch was good enough for his daughter. Good enough for every other girl, but not for her. That wasn't exactly a surprise.

“I don't care,” Butch said with a shrug that tried its damnedest to be casual. It didn't quite make the grade.

“Maybe...”

“I _said_ I don't care!” He ducked his head, hunched his shoulders, and carefully asked, “Is Wally on there?”

“Um...yeah.”

“Fine.” He sneered and huffed and sat down beside her, bracing his back against the desk. “You know what? I wouldn't want to make it with that little Daddy's girl anyhow. I'd rather do it with _you,_ and I _hate_ you.”

“ _Thanks_?”

“You know what I mean. At least you're...” He looked at her, and quickly looked away. “I mean, nothing. Never mind.”

“Well, I'd rather do it with you than Wally Mack,” she admitted, “which isn't saying much.”

“You _would_?”

“Don't get a swelled head about it! Wally's gross.” She shook her head carefully. All this alcohol was making it hard to keep track of what she was saying. “You're also gross. But not like Wally.”

“Thanks,” he said with a bemused smile. He had kind of a nice smile sometimes, even if he looked kind of dopey right now, and looking at it gave her a brilliant idea.

“You know what we should do?” she asked eagerly.

“Uh...no?”

“We...” She turned toward him as if confiding a secret, close enough to smell the warm bourbon on his breath. “...should smoke.”

“Heh. That's why you're the smart one.” He reached for the spot where his pocket should be, but since he wasn't wearing his jacket—“Oh, right.” Before she had time to react, she felt his hand slip into _her_ pocket—well, the pocket in the thing she was wearing, anyway.

“Rude!” She slapped his hand away.

“What? It's my jacket. It's my cigarettes.”

“It's my body, and you can't just go around grabbing it!”

“Oh.” He considered that, and shrugged his agreement. “You do it, then. But give me one. I—” He snickered. “I _want_ it.”

“Shut up, you dingus.” She took out the pack of cigarettes, and tried to imitate his wrist-flick trick. Cigarettes went flying all over the room. He laughed at her, because of course he did.

“Should have let me do it, ham-hands.”

“You know what?” She fished one out with her fingers and took his lighter out with the other hand. “Maybe I _won't_ give you one.”

“I think you already gave me _most_ of them,” he said with a glance at the little white cylinders scattered across the floor.

“Maybe—but I didn't light them.” She pushed down on the thing—she didn't know what it was called, the thing that made the lighter work, but she had watched him earlier, and she understood how it was done. It only took her two tries to get the little flame to spring up, and no trouble at all to get the cigarette to light.

She let the flame wink out when Butch reached for it, and quickly dropped it down the front of her vault suit. She did it clumsily, dragging her zipper down too far for modesty as she fought to keep control of her movement, but she got the lighter hidden away. His jerked his hand back, like he'd put it too close to something that was going to burn him, and averted his eyes from her chest.

“I'm not going in after it,” he said.

“Good.” She took the tiniest puff on the cigarette, but didn't inhale the smoke all the way. She wasn't going to make that mistake twice, so she just let it sit in her mouth until she couldn't stand it anymore and blew it out.

“Give it.” Butch held his hand out expectantly. She stared at his fingers but made no move to hand it over to him.

“Nope. Don't think I will.”

“ _Give_ it,” he repeated.

“I didn't hear a please.” She took another little puff. It wasn't very satisfying, but teasing him was. He grabbed for it, and she whipped her arm back out of his reach.

“Give it to me!”

“Ohh,” she taunted, “give it to me, Violet.”

“You're not as funny as you think you are!” He lunged for the cigarette. She couldn't extend her reach any farther, so she just let herself fall backward, and gravity took them both to the floor. Violet laughed when her back hit the ground as he pinned her, grabbing for the cigarette, but that died in her throat when a _flash_ erupted on the floor near their heads.

“Oh, shit!”

An ember from the cigarette landed on some of the toilet paper streamers—the _bourbon soaked_ toilet paper streamers. They immediately went up in flames. Fire raced along the lines of white paper, jumping from one to the next in rapid succession as the two of them scrambled back to avoid getting burned. Only Butch's masterpiece “U SUCK,” all by itself in the middle of the floor, didn't immediately ignite.

“Shit, shit, shit!” She peeled off the jacket and started beating the flames.

“Don't bother with that, let's _go_!”

“But it's a fire—” she started, just as the alarms started blaring and the sprinklers released a torrent of freezing cold water. Right into her _face_.

She felt Butch's arm snare her around the waist and, disoriented and half blinded by the water, she let him drag her along. She hoped they were heading toward the door. She hoped the whole vault wasn't going to burn down. She hoped she hadn't doomed them all, just because she wanted a cigarette.

They found the door, and staggered out into the hall in a billow of smoke and steam. She fell to her knees, shivering, the breath catching in her throat, and was dimly aware of Butch hitting the floor beside her.

“God, we have to get out of here,” he said, but neither of them got up. She felt his hand on hers, tugging—tugging at his jacket, she realized, trying to take it back. Embarrassed, she shrank away.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. This was not how the night was supposed to end, her soaked and freezing despite the scorching heat behind her, Butch with a fine dusting of soot across his face streaked with trails of water from the sprinklers, a vital section of the vault literally gone up in flames.

At least when she rebelled, she didn't do it halfway.

“Here,” he said, and when she didn't respond, “Put it _on_ , stupid.” He dropped the sodden leather jacket over her shoulders and pulled her up by the arm. “Run.”

Who was she to argue? He had a lot more experience with fucking up than she did, so she did as she was told and took off down the hallway, away from the scene of the crime.

And straight into the arms of Officer Gomez.

Ordinarily, it would have been a relief to be caught by him, rather than any of the others. He was a decent man, and he had been a friend to her all her life. But now, as he stopped her in her headlong rush down the hallway, all she could see was the _HG_ in that column of initials on the page that spelled out her future. Herman Gomez. She fell back from him with a smothered cry.

“Violet! Are you all right?”

“What are you two kids doing?”

She looked past him to the other two security officers trailing behind him. O'Brian and Park. That made things even worse, because they _weren't_ friends. Officer Park was just a distant acquaintance, but O'Brian was the terrifying presence that most kids didn't even dare make eye contact with. She reeled back, seeking Butch's presence, fully aware of the irony of her taking comfort from _him_ , but he had been with her all night. For whatever it was worth, they were in this together.

And she had seen the results of Officer O'Brian's commitment to law and order. They usually ended up in her father's clinic.

“I think something happened in the Overseer's office, officers,” Butch said with overblown innocence. “You should probably go put the fire out.”

Officer Gomez gestured to the others, who hurried past them toward the Overseer's office. O'Brien took the time to glare at both of them in turn as he went by, the sort of look that spelled “threat” without a word needing to be spoken. If they ever wanted to be truly scary instead of just a juvenile nuisance, the Tunnel Snakes should have asked the guy for pointers.

“Violet,” Officer Gomez said, his hands finding her shoulders to steady her. Comfort her. “Tell me what happened.”

“I'm sorry,” she started, and found her eyes starting to water, “it's my fault.”

Officer Gomez stared at her for a moment, searching her face. He frowned, and looked at Butch, but still spoke to her. “You sure about that, Violet?”

“Yes. I—I didn't mean for anything to happen, but...I did it.” She had to face up to it, and take whatever punishment they gave her. Her father had always taught her to own up to her mistakes.

God, she was going to break his heart.

She looked back at the office doorway, where Park and O'Brian were blasting the last of the flames with fire extinguishers. It was going out as quickly as it had started, and it wasn't spreading to any other rooms. That was something, anyway.

Then she looked at Butch, who was staring at her with open shock and something like grudging admiration.

What—had he expected her to sell him out? Was that why he'd tried so hard to get her out of there? She knew it would be easy to put all the blame on him, but she couldn't do that. Not even to Butch.

“So... _you_ set fire to the Overseer's office?” Gomez asked doubtfully.

“Yes, but it was an accident.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Well...the fire started because of all the toilet paper. And the bourbon.”

“You toilet papered the office?” She nodded silently. “And...bourbon?”

“It was in the desk.”

“Good lord. And how did the fire start?”

“I dropped a cigarette.”

Officer Gomez pinched at the bridge of his nose hard enough to pull his eyes closed, as if he had a headache he was trying to pluck out by the root. Then he dropped his hand and stared, hard, at Butch.

“Okay, and where do you come in?”

“I dunno,” Butch said casually. “I was just in the neighborhood.”

She frowned at him. The least he could do was take responsibility for his own part of the damage.

“All right. I think I see what's going on here.” Officer Gomez reached out to ease the jacket from her shoulders gently, and folded it up under his arm. “Violet, you should go home.”

“What?” She blinked. “But—”

“You don't need to protect him, kiddo.” The look he shot Butch's direction was disapproving, and a little accusatory, like he'd corrupted her.

“Officer Gomez, I'm not! I swear!” Here she was confessing for something she actually did and he didn't believe her. She wasn't that much of a goody-two-shoes, was she? She was still a teenager, wasn't she? Teenagers were supposed to do stupid, irresponsible shit, even smart, responsible ones like her.

“Go home, get to bed.” He patted her on the arm, then moved to take Butch by the sleeve. “Everything will look better in the morning. C'mon, Butch. You know the drill.”

“But...” She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling absolutely miserable. At least part of that was that he'd swiped the jacket, the only thing standing between her and freezing into an icicle right in the middle of the hallway.

She looked at Butch again. His teeth were chattering, but he still managed to flash an easy smile in her direction.

“Just run along home to daddy, you little nerd. No one's ever gonna believe you're not just covering.”

“I wouldn't cover for you—I wouldn't cover for him!” she insisted to Officer Gomez. “I hate him.”

“Okay, then what were you doing here together?”

Good question. And if she answered honestly, he still wouldn't believe her.

The other two trooped up behind her.

“Looks like they spelled out 'U SUCK' in toilet paper on the floor,” Park reported.

“That's still there?” Butch asked with a laugh. Gomez ignored him.

“Y-O-U or the letter U?”

“The letter.”

“Uh-huh. Violet, go home.”

“No! I could have spelled it as U!” Could have, but never would have. She stomped her foot, petulant as a six-year-old. “Look at me, damn it! I'm _drunk!”_

“You want to give the girl an escort?” O'Brian asked as he grabbed Butch by the back of the collar. “We can process this one without you.”

“Yeah, sure.” Gomez passed the leather jacket to Officer Park and put a firm but gentle hand on Violet's shoulder. She fought the urge to shake him off.

“You should take him to the clinic,” she said. If they weren't going to punish her at all, at least she could try to get her fellow troublemaker out of a night in _jail_. “Smoke inhalation can present serious complications, you know.”

“Don't tell us how to do our jobs, miss,” Park said flatly, as O'Brian propelled Butch forward, hiking up his vault suit so much he had to walk almost on tiptoe, with his arms splayed out to the sides for balance.

“Ease off, jerkwad,” Butch protested. “I'm going.”

Officer Gomez gave her a smile that was almost painfully sympathetic.

“Let's get you home, kiddo,” he said kindly. “And, listen, your heart's in the right place, but the next time you see one of those guys getting up to no good, don't try to stop it yourself. Call us. The security team is here to help you.”

She wanted to say something else. Apologize ( _apologize?_ ) to Butch somehow. But there wasn't any point. For a brief, shining moment, they'd found something that was definitely not friendship, but a bond of shared stupidity that made her feel a little better, though she'd found out things during the course of their spree that would make her feel worse in the long run. The distraction of making bad decisions had been welcome, even if it'd been with him.

It couldn't last, of course it couldn't. Here they were going right back to the way things were, the way things had always been: Butch, the juvenile delinquent who got into trouble; Violet, the goody-goody who never did. Them hating each other, avoiding each other, probably never speaking two remotely civil words to each other ever again. That was if they ever even managed to be in the same room together after tonight.

But it had been okay while it lasted, and if this was all the hell she ever got to raise...well, she could have done worse.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of posting and responding lately, lovelies! Off and on for the past few weeks, I've been fighting **The Cold That Would Not Die** (coming soon to a theater near you _dear god run while you still can_ ) so I've not been up to doing much. I'm still not feeling a hundred percent, so service will be a bit spotty for a little while longer. Thanks for sticking around, anyway!
> 
> -Moon

Morning came, and with it a dull throb behind her eyeballs she identified as her first hangover. Even better, she got to face her father at the breakfast table. Or would have, if she had the nerve to make eye contact over her bowl of sugar bombs and reconstituted milk.

“Did you sleep well, sweetheart?” her dad asked, with that slight hesitation that told her that he knew perfectly well she hadn't. He didn't have to come out and say so for her to know. This was the Dad Thing. He knew something was up, probably even had an idea what it was, but decided to give her enough space to come clean without judgment or reprimand.

No one would ever mistake him for a particularly _attentive_ father; observant, maybe, but he spent more time buried in his work than he did with her. Still, he'd raised a good kid. The kind whose conscience could eat her up more effectively than his disapproval could. He never had to press for information; all he had to do was wait.

Violet shrugged. With her eyes glued to her cereal as she poked it with her spoon, she felt more like a sullen fifteen year old than a responsible adult. “Not really.”

What little sleep she'd gotten had been lousy, interrupted by tossing and turning. Also, on one lamentably memorable occasion, the taste of stomach acid and stale diner coffee that didn't come up but tried its damnedest.

“I apologize for being out all night.” When Violet reached for her coffee cup, he took up the water pitcher and poured some in her glass. A subtle hint that proper hydration would be a better idea. “A few of the seals on the test samples ruptured. Jonas and I spent the night trying to salvage what we could.”

Her head jerked up in surprise, which filled her with immediate regret because it felt like her brain sloshed up against her skull. “Will you need to take more?”

The question came out sounding more hopeful than she intended. If any of the genetic samples were contaminated beyond use, it created a short stay of execution while he procured more. It could be a couple extra weeks before the results came back. Never did she think so small a space of time could seem so precious, but the idea of two weeks, perhaps even a full month, between her and the marriage bed made her downright giddy.

“Thankfully, no.”

“Thankfully,” she echoed in a hollow voice. Well. Hopes dashed. Violet returned to her cereal, scooping some up, draining the milk from the spoon by tilting it sideways, and then dumping it back into the bowl. In a sudden fit of irritation, she mashed a couple of the soggier bits down against the bottom.

Her father cleared his throat and leaned toward her a little, almost the same way he did when she was a child playing with her food. “Are you going to eat it, or are you trying to drown it?”

“Drown it.” She gave the cereal a savage stab. Without looking up, she muttered, “I'm sorry for being out all night too. Well, not _all_ night, but...”

“But...”

“I couldn't sleep.” She shrugged again. “So I went to get a cup of coffee.”

“Yes,” her father replied, draining his own. “I understand caffeine after bedtime often leads to a budding career in arson.”

There was no point denying it, so she didn't. There was no point defending it, so she didn't do that either. Her dad knew her well enough to know she wasn't trying to cover for Butch, so she didn't need to try and convince him it was her fault. There was nothing for it but to say, “I'm sorry.”

“Violet.” He only called her by name when he was serious. Still, it took her by surprise when he asked, rather grimly, “Have you been seeing that boy?”

“Seeing—Butch? Seeing like _dating_? Oh, not you, too!” Was everyone going to assume that she and Butch had coupled up just because they spent a single night in each other's company without drawing blood?

“Is that a no?”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean—yes, it's a no! He's the worst!”

He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “All right. I only wondered if you had formed an attachment that might complicate matters, given the situation.”

“No,” she huffed. “No attachments. Especially not with Butch!” She was getting too worked up. It was making her head pound.

Without drawing unnecessary attention to the action, her father gently nudged her water glass. She didn't even realize she'd begun rubbing her forehead until the scrape it made across the tabletop made her flinch.

She knew enough about hangovers to know he was right, even if she lacked the experience to back up the textbook reading until last night. She took the unspoken advice, picked up the water and sipped some.

“He was just being nice to me,” she murmured between mouthfuls.

And wasn't that a hell of a thing? Butch being _nice._ To _her._ They'd antagonized each other all their lives. Well, that wasn't the whole truth. They'd gotten along until their vocabularies gained enough sophistication to call each other “poopy head,” and he'd always been better at the antagonizing part than she had. Now it had all come to an abrupt, albeit temporary, halt? No wonder her father wanted to know if they were going together.

“Nice?” her dad repeated in an isn't-that-something kind of tone. “I suppose you must be a good influence on him, then.”

“I influenced him to burn down the Overseer's office,” she reminded him. Then she winced. That was taking a little too much credit for herself. He'd probably have caused just as much damage without her.

“Yes, well...someday I'll have to tell you about some of the things your mother and I got up to when we were your age.”

If she didn't know any better, she'd say he was smiling behind his coffee cup. But he rarely talked about her mom, and never with a smile. Her entire concept of marriage had always involved averted eyes and heavy silence, a love that hurt too much to mention.

Inwardly, she cynically mused. Of all the problems her current predicament presented, at least she didn't have to worry about a broken heart. The best she dared hope for with her intended mate was a kind of detached friendliness. If they were parted by death at a young age like her parents had been, it'd be impossible to muster up enough feeling to mourn for a year, much less decades. Always look on the bright side, and all like that.

“It won't happen again, I promise. No more rule-breaking. No more...anything.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He set his coffee cup down and reached across the table to take her hand. “You're a young woman with good sense and integrity, and I'm proud of you for that. But I want you to know that I trust your judgment, despite certain...mistakes you may have made last night.” He hesitated. “There are...some rules that...” The intercom pinged, and her father's face settled into that familiar blank expression that he always assumed when he was called away from a family dinner to deal with a sprained toe. She flashed him a weak but reassuring smile, the same sort she always did. A doctor's kid grew up used to the interruptions.

While he crossed the room to the intercom, she returned to her now soggy cereal. She didn't feel much like eating, but her stomach probably wouldn't settle until she put something in it.

She didn't pay much attention to her father's conversation. She had always been interested in whatever was going on in the clinic and the lab, but now whatever was happening would be just one more reminder of what she wanted to avoid, so she tuned it out and renewed her attack on her breakfast.

The bowl was nearly empty when he returned, stony faced.

“Let me guess,” she joked. “Butch got shanked in prison and you have to go patch him up.”

“Violet.”

“Sorry.” That would be no laughing matter, of course, not that there was anyone else in lockup to shank him. Or was it shiv?

“The Overseer is calling a special assembly this afternoon,” her father said. “He wants to see you privately beforehand.”

“Oh.” And he wouldn't be as understanding as her dad.

* * *

The Overseer made her wait. She reached his office, went inside, and found it empty.

Well, at least it wasn't on fire.

Someone had already cleaned up the toilet paper and scrubbed the walls clean. Aside from a faint smoke-and-antiseptic tang in the air, you could hardly even tell what had gone on a few hours before. Maybe there was a part of the floor that looked a little dingier, like it'd been singed, and maybe that patch was in the shape of a letter, but it could have been her imagination. Even if it wasn't, the letter in question was almost assuredly not “U.”

Violet sank into the chair in front of the desk. It _loom_ _ed_ at her accusingly, with memories of stolen bourbon and scattered cigarettes and Butch's chin digging into her shoulder as they read private papers not meant for their eyes. She should have been the one to clean the room up. She had fully expected that to be her punishment. It would have been fitting, and it would have soothed her conscience about the whole messy business if she'd been given the opportunity to make amends with some elbow grease.

But that would have been too easy. The Overseer wasn't in the habit of meting out punishment on the basis of what made the guilty party feel good, or even what was fair. He knew the weaknesses of every vault dweller under his care and used them to his full advantage. For _Butch_ , being forced to thoroughly clean up after himself would be a proper penalty. He'd bellyache through the whole thing, and half-ass it, and be forced to do the monotonous job three more times to make up for the half-assing.

In her case, it would be the appropriate, logical consequence of her actions, accepted with contrition and without a peep of protest. That was the stuff of penance, not punishment.

No, for Violet, the Overseer would come up with something clever. She could only hope it would be something she wouldn't have to suffer through for long.

She had found a sooty spot on the desk and was scrubbing at it with her bare fingers when he finally deigned to arrive. Clipboard in hand, no less, like this was a test that she was bound to fail. She withdrew her hand from the stain and let it fall into her lap.

The Overseer didn't even bother to look at her as he settled into his chair, flipped a few pages on his clipboard, and made a couple of notations with a pencil. Violet fought the urge to fidget in the intolerable silence. He probably knew it, too. Why else treat her as though she were made of cellophane?

She didn't let him fluster her. She was hung over, and she hadn't slept. He could be as spiteful and petty as he wanted; it was nothing next to the pounding in her head.

When he finally glanced up, it was with a benign smile. He folded his hands on the desk, and gave her his best impression of being happy to see her. And oh, that was so much worse than the silent treatment.

“Violet,” he said kindly, “I trust you're feeling well.”

There was no point contradicting him. It would only prolong the process. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He shuffled a paper or two on his desk. “I understand you had quite the adventure last night.” The Overseer didn't wait for her to answer. “Led astray by our mischievous Mister DeLoria.”

Well, at least _he_ thought she was guilty of something, even if he still didn't think she deserved as much blame as was due. Violet ventured a careful nod.

“I don't suppose I have to lecture you on the importance of not wasting limited vault resources on a prank.”

Of course he referred to the toilet paper, one of their most strictly rationed supplies. If she and Butch hadn't been unlucky and stupid, it wouldn't have caught fire. It might have been a little crumpled, but it would have still been usable, or at least recyclable. But they _had_ been unlucky and stupid, it _had_ caught fire, and he did have a perfectly valid point.

She ducked her head with shame. “No, sir.”

“There is also the matter of a bottle of bourbon. Do you have anything to say about that?”

She could say she liked vodka better, but that wasn't what he wanted to hear.

“I'm sorry. It was wrong of us to take it.”

“It certainly was.” The Overseer's fingers tented. “As was rifling through my personal belongings to get to it.”

Again, a reasonable thing to say. He had every right to be upset about such a violation of his privacy, even without the added theft of his stash of alcohol. She had no defense.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“I'm sure you realize the vault chaplain is expected to set a _good_ example.”

That might be true if even one person in the vault was religious, but literally no one had come to service since she'd been assigned the job two years ago. She still had the very first sermon she wrote tucked away in a desk drawer, where it lay untouched because there was never anyone around to hear it. At most, her duties consisted of providing emotional support to distressed patients while she acted as her father's nurse, just like she always had.

“It won't happen again.”

“Violet, I want you to understand that I am not without sympathy. I was young once. I made mistakes.”

She had a hard time believing that, any of it. Him being sympathetic, him being young. Certainly not him _admitting_ to being wrong about anything, ever.

“But,” he continued, “as Overseer, I occupy the Vault's most critical role. My office is off limits. What if you had discovered some...sensitive documents intended for my eyes only? Security is of the utmost importance in a vault. For the safety of us all.”

The way he looked at her expectantly made her skin crawl, and she couldn't put her finger on why. Was he fishing for information? Is that why he was trying to sound kind and sincere instead of snapping at her the way she'd expected? She had no doubt that his usual courtesy was nothing but a mask, but was this extra special graciousness an attempt to wheedle information out of her before the hammer came down?

“I don't know what you mean, sir.” And she didn't, though he looked unconvinced. The notepads she and Butch pored over didn't tell her anything she didn't already know, or at least nothing that she shouldn't have figured out, not really.

On reflection, it was sensible to screen the adult members of the vault for genetic compatibility, even if she found it initially shocking. Though he hadn't told any of the younger dwellers of the possibility, probably to avoid an unnecessary panic, he had to retrieve genetic material from the adults. They were obviously aware something was going on. Besides that, he would be making the announcements of their pairings in just a few days. Surely he couldn't consider it a vitally important secret if it wasn't going to be one for long?

“To the contrary, I think you do, Violet.” He smiled, but it was cold and didn't reach his eyes. “I would appreciate your honesty in this instance.”

“Well, I mean...” She shifted uncomfortably under his study. “We figured out you're screening everyone. Not just the kids.”

“And?”

“And what?'

“You know very well, 'what.'” The smile turned sour, curdling right before her eyes into something nasty. “You and I both know there's more to it than that. Don't insult my intelligence, Violet.”

“Overseer—”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No?” Maybe she'd have confided what she'd learned to Amata eventually, but there was very little to tell. Even so, it was a ridiculous question to ask right now. When would she have found the time to blab? It'd been scant hours since the incident in his office; he called her to him while she was eating breakfast, for goodness sake! He was the first person she'd even seen today, outside of her father. Was she supposed to have posted a bulletin? Printed pamphlets to distribute?

“And Butch, I suppose he hasn't, either.”

“He's been in lock-up all night.” Alone, too, as far as she knew. Why was he acting so paranoid?

The Overseer sighed at her in a put-upon way. “I had hoped you'd have the decency to come clean if I approached you about the issue, Violet, but I see my trust in your integrity was misplaced.”

And now he was insulting her, too. Not surprising, since he only tolerated her for Amata's sake and had never truly liked her, but why now? What did he think she knew, that she obviously didn't? What more was there to know?

“No matter,” he said. “I decided to give you a chance to explain yourself, but I see you're intent on throwing the olive branch in my face. Rest assured, whatever scurrilous rumors you may have started based on incomplete information will be crushed at the assembly.”

Violet gaped at him, uncomprehending. Had gossip started in the handful of hours between then and now? If so, he insisted on assigning blame in the wrong place. He'd have done better to accuse the security staff, but of course he'd never do that.

More worrying, perhaps there weren't any rumors at all, and these were these the fears of a man with something to hide made manifest. Something worse than what she and Butch actually had discovered.

“Sir, I promise you—”

He waved a hand as though she hadn't spoken at all. “You may go.”

“But—“

“I am not in the habit of repeating myself.”

She stared at him a moment longer, shook her head and pulled herself out of the chair. Whatever it was that he thought she knew, whatever secret he feared she'd spread around, she'd learn what it was when everyone else did.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. Real life decided to force me into a three month hiatus. But I'm back now!
> 
> We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Violet took to the halls with a purposeful stride that stalled a few steps past the security office door. Damn the thing for being so close to the Overseer's office. She found herself hovering in the corridor, trying to will herself to move past but unable to force her feet into motion. Her conscience niggled at her.

Butch was in there, locked up, probably miserable. He _was_ guilty, and he deserved to be punished...but no more than she did. As a matter of fact, she was the one who had instigated the whole thing. If she hadn't woken him up in the diner, he probably would have slept through until morning, no harm done.

(Well, no harm to anyone but Andy.)

Shifting anxiously from foot to foot, she wondered. Had the Overseer grilled him, too? If so, did he let anything slip that might give an idea of whatever secret he thought they'd found? She could have waited for the “assembly,” she supposed, but she got the feeling he wouldn't be completely truthful with the residents even then. Better to try and piece the mystery together herself than trust the Overseer's word on anything. It'd been years since she and Amata played at being _Girl Detectives_ , getting into mischief while solving pretend cases, but the impulse was still there. 

She bent at the waist enough to sneak a peek through the window. Gomez sat at his desk, filling out paperwork with his chin resting in his hand. He'd probably been up all night just like she had been; he certainly looked tired enough for it.

In the cell beyond him, on his side with his jacket draped over him, lay Butch. She wasn't sure if he was asleep or not, or if he'd even want to see her, or if he even had anything worthwhile to say, but...

Violet stood. What would Trixie Belden do? Or Nancy Drew? Or even the Dana girls? Well, the Dana girls would wander around aimlessly until the mystery solved _itself_ , but Nancy and Trixie and the Bobbsey twins, they would take action. They would _snoop_.

She'd have to talk to him.

* * *

Half an hour later, she returned with a thermos of fresh, hot coffee from the diner.

Officer Gomez jumped, startled, when she knocked on the door. He flipped the switch to open the door for her—and, oh, she didn't like that speculative look on his face.

“Good morning, Violet. How's your head?”

“Could be worse, I guess. So you actually believe I was drinking last night?”

“You'd hardly be the first person your age to sneak a little alcohol.” He looked at her pretty much the same way her father had over the breakfast table, and she winced, picturing again the HG in the middle of the neat columns of initials. His son was her age. And he had a wife. The Overseer couldn't possibly expect...no, those lists must have been for him to organize the data, not to set up any definite plans.

“I just came to, um...” She held up the coffee, too embarrassed to admit that she was offering a bribe.

“Oh, that's nice of you. Technically, I'm supposed to be keeping Butch in solitary confinement, but I'm sure we could make an exception, since you're partners in crime and all.” He laid careful emphasis on those words. He still didn't believe that's what they were; she didn't want to dwell too much on what he did believe. “I'm sure he'll appreciate the coffee.”

“What? But—it's for you.” Apparently, she wasn't any better at bribing guards than she was at smoking and vandalism. And he was just going to let her through anyway. Why did she have to be so trustworthy?

“Oh! Well, thanks, kiddo, but my shift ends in twenty minutes. I'm going to bed as soon as I can. I'll go ahead and buzz you in, though.”

“Okay. Um, thanks.” She wrapped her hands around the thermos and frowned. She should just leave it. Coming to talk to Butch was bad enough. But bringing him coffee? That was something one of his friends should have done. “Hey, why is he in solitary?” She understood making him spend a night in jail, but that seemed a little excessive.

“Overseer's orders. I guess he was a little upset that his office got torched.” He pressed the button to override the lock, and the door slid into the wall.

Ah. Paranoia. She should have guessed.

Butch didn't stir as she walked into the room. He was curled up under his jacket, with his face to the wall. All she could really see of him was the top of his hair and the soles of his boots.

She wouldn't have recognized him if she hadn't already known it was him. The sprinklers had doused him hard enough to blast the pomade out of his hair, and it had dried curly. It had been years since she'd seen him without it slicked down and tortured into its usual shape. How could she have forgotten that ridiculous puff he'd had as a kid? 

“Butch? Hey.” She sat on the edge of the cot and poked his shoulder, and he groaned and pulled the jacket up over his head.

“Don't yell at me.”

“I'm not yelling. Wake up!” She poked him again, and came away with damp fingers. He hadn't even changed out of his soaked vault suit. “Aren't you cold?”

“Ngh. Go away.”

“I brought coffee.”

He didn't move for a few seconds, almost long enough for her to decide he wasn't going to. But before she could get up and leave, he pulled his jacket down enough to expose one eye, which glared at her suspiciously.

“ _Why_?”

“It was basically an accident. Do you want it or not?”

“Mmph.” He rolled over and leaned on his elbow. His jacket slipped down a little, and she got a good look at his face under the unfamiliar soft waves of his hair. Bloodshot, sunken eyes, a bit of spit crusted at the corner of his mouth, a five o'clock shadow, and his face was still streaked with soot. He looked like hell. “Did you spit in it?” 

“For god's sake, Butch.” She made a big show of twisting the lid off the thermos and taking a sip. “It's fine.”

“Like you wouldn't drink your own spit?” He still sat up and took it from her, curling both hands around it and holding it close to his face to breathe in the steam before he took a careful sip. He looked pale and ragged, about as bad as she'd felt when she'd first woken up. But he should be used to feeling hung over. “Ohhh, man.”

“Good?”

He made an incoherent _mmm_ sound and took another sip, eyes drifting closed. “Any chance you smuggled in a stack of pancakes?”

“What am I, your maid? Don't push it.”

“You don't want to wear one of those little ruffly aprons? Ooh-la-la.” He took another sip from the thermos just as she slapped the back of his head. Coffee sloshed down his front, and all over his jacket. At least the leather took the brunt of it. “Ow! It was a _compliment_!”

“You're an idiot.”

He angrily flicked his fingers at her, sprinkling her with some of the coffee she'd doused him with. “Who's a bigger idiot, the idiot or the idiot talking to the idiot?”

“Knock it off,” she warned. All he did was make a grotesque face and imitate her as she spoke— _knock it off!_ in a tone much whinier than anything in her repertoire. Same old Butch. “This is serious. I came here to talk to you.” 

“So talk already!”

“Fine!” Her raised voice made him wince. She repeated, more gently, “Fine. I just wanted to know if the Overseer came to see you.”

“No. Why would he?”

“Apparently, he thinks we've been spreading rumors.”

“But I've been _here_ all night.” He drained the last of the coffee and leaned against the wall, looking like he'd go right back to sleep if she let him.

“That didn't stop him from asking about you when he dragged me into his office just now. Did you say anything about those notebooks to the security staff?”

“When? You're the only one who's been in here.”

“Yeah, Officer Gomez mentioned solitary confinement.” She frowned. “The Overseer asked me if we found out anything last night. You know, things of a sensitive nature.”

“How he's thinkin' about makin' nubile teen girls boink old guys, you mean.”

“I—hang on, how do _you_ know that word?”

“What?” He jerked his head up so he could kind of look down his nose at her. “Nubile? I read!”

Violet stared at him. She'd only ever seen that word in very specific, very _dirty_ contexts. “ _Pornography_?”

His face flushed bright pink, but in spite of his obvious embarrassment, he _sneered_ at her. “It's—“

“Oh my god, I don't want to _know_ what it is! Keep your smutty reading habits to yourself!” She visibly shuddered and held up her hands to stop him from telling her anything else she didn't want to hear. “Listen, the point is, the Overseer seemed to think we know...I don't know, _more_.”

“So the Overseer's acting nuts. So what?”

“So, he's—”

“Do _you_ read smut?” he interrupted.

“None of your business!”

“Okay, it's just you were awfully quick to make the jump from nubile to _pornography_.” He said the last word in a stiff, haughty voice that sounded nothing like hers.

“I'm just here to talk about the Overseer, okay? Not smut!”

“Hey, I'm not the one who brought it up.” 

Her jaw began to ache. Only then did she realize she'd started grinding her teeth.

“Butch, is there _anything_ you can think of that he might be trying to hide from everyone? Maybe you saw something last night that didn't seem important at the time?”

“You saw what I saw,” he said with a shrug. “Why are you bothering me with this?” He lifted his head away from the wall to look at her. It seemed to take a lot of effort, but he still managed to look smug. “What, do you miss me already?”

Violet made an incoherent noise of disbelief.

“Listen,” he leaned toward her, smirking, “if you're thinkin' about...y'know, makin' it up to me that I took the fall for you...”

She gaped at him. “Are you suggesting—“

“Are _you_ suggesting? 'Cause you'd have to ask a lot nicer than that.”

“Oh my god. I take it back. All of it! Every nice thing I said or ever thought about you! You are _so gross!_ You are ten times grosser than Wally!” She threw her hands up in the air in disgust. “And you know what?” she sputtered and pointed at the cloud of curls on his head, “Your hair is _stupid_!”

He put a hand to his head, and winced when he felt the absence of pomade.

“Yeah, well—it's still better than yours! And— _what_ nice things? What have you been thinking about me?”

“Nothing!” She snatched the thermos out of his hands. “You are so impossible! I don't know why I ever thought...”

“About me?” he said with a grin, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in an attitude of disgusting superiority. “It's the jacket, right? Chicks dig the jacket.”

“I was going to say I don't know why I ever thought you'd be any help! And _nobody_ digs the jacket. You look like a dumbass.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why are you thinking such nice things about me?” He watched smugly as she headed for the door. “So, these thoughts, they regular nice, or like... _nice_ nice?”

Violet pounded on the door to get Officer Gomez's attention.

“Aw, don't go away mad.” He was laughing at her, the jackass.

“I hope they never let you out of here.”

“Why, so you can come visit me any time you want?”

“Oh my god, shut _up_!” She banged on the door again.

“C'mon, Nosebleed, it's just a joke,” he said in a whine that edged toward sincere, “You don't have to go.”

She turned from the door to glare at him just as it _bzzed_ and slid open.

“I have an assembly I have to go to,” she said. “Enjoy your time to yourself.”

“It's boring in here,” he muttered.

“Well, if you wanted company, you shouldn't have acted like _you_.”

She could almost believe he looked wounded by that. But as she stepped through the door, he looked away from her so fast she convinced herself she imagined it.

“Oh yeah?” he grumbled, “Well, who needs you, anyway?”

“Bye, Butch.”

“Whatever,” he said sullenly. Then, he jerked up as though remembering something. “Hey, wait!”

She hesitated. Officer Gomez, giving her a look that spoke volumes, held down the button to keep the door from closing behind her. Damn it, this was how rumors got started.

“What?” she snapped.

“Did you ralph last night?”

“Uh, no?”

He nodded. “Cool. Next time, drink harder.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Violet hadn't touched her old school satchel since graduation, but once she dumped out all the old notes and essays, it was roomy enough.

She felt...not _guilty_ , exactly, since it wasn't her fault. But she felt sort of bad for Butch, sitting alone in that cell with nothing to do for however long they decided to keep him there. With the Overseer taking a personal interest, it might be a while.

She told herself she had no illusions about the situation as she scoured her bookshelves, picking through and evaluating each volume—tossing one into the satchel here, passing over another there. They weren't friends, she didn't want to be friends, and Butch was probably lousy at friendship anyway. But she did want to be nice. Not because he deserved it, because he didn't, and not because she liked him, because she didn't, but because it was the right thing to do.

Not that he would care about doing the right thing if their positions were reversed. She was just being stupid, reading too much into the fact that he hadn't been quite as awful as he could have been. (But, her sense of fairness reminded her, for whole minutes at a time he had acted downright polite.)

She picked up her copy of _Moby Dick_ and tucked it in the bag. That should keep him occupied. She wondered how far he would get with it before he realized there wasn't going to be any sex.

There was a package of gumdrops lying on the shelf, and some potato crisps she had set down and forgotten some time in the—hopefully recent—past. She grabbed those and stuffed them in, too. They weren't pancakes, but a snack was a snack. She just hoped he wouldn't take it to mean any more than it did.

Almost as an afterthought, she went and got one of her dad's spare vault suits. For all the suit's good qualities, the material took forever to dry, and Butch really must be freezing in his wet one.

There, that would be enough to salve her conscience. She slung the bag over her shoulder and walked out into the hall, only to find Amata waiting for her, poised to knock.

“Are you sleeping with Butch?”

“Amata!” It came out as nearly a shriek. “No! _No!”_

“Well, don't get excited, V. I was just asking.”

Violet seriously considered abandoning her plan for the books and throwing her satchel off, but that would just raise questions. News traveled fast—apparently faster than she ever thought it could. She'd only ever been on the outskirts of scandals involving other people, and never went out of her way to learn the scuttlebutt, so she always felt a bit in the dark. Now that her rebellion with Butch was a topic of gossip, she was stunned by how many people knew her business. No wonder the Overseer was concerned about it, if this is how quickly it spread.

“I don't know what you've heard, or where you heard it, but I am not now, nor will I _ever_ be sleeping with Butch!” She hiked the bag up higher on her shoulder. “Where did you even get that idea?!”

Amata shrugged a little. “It's a small vault. People talk.”

“Well, they should stop! The most physical thing we did was when I tried to punch him. And the asshole _dodged_.” And she was still a little mad about that, apparently.

“I'm not judging you, really.” She very much doubted the truth of that, no matter how earnestly Amata tried to say it. She hated Butch as much as Violet did, maybe more. But she was trying to be a supportive friend, and she could appreciate the effort behind the gesture, even if the words rang hollow. “I mean, if you _were_ sleeping with Butch—”

“I'm not!” she insisted, and Amata took a step back, hands raised in surrender.

“Okay, okay! Consider the subject dropped.” She smiled. “So what's with the bag? Are you running away from home again?”

“Yeah, because that worked out so well when we were six.” She clutched the bag tighter and tried to think of a way to explain it that wouldn't sound like she'd put together a _care package_ for Butch. “I, um...it's…” she stalled, glancing around the corridor for some escape, “Shouldn't we be going? I don't want to be late.”

Amata looked at her expectantly, and gestured down the hall toward the atrium. “We can walk and talk, if it'd make you feel better.”

“Sure, yeah. Okay.” Violet fell into step beside her easily enough. Long moments of silence passed between them before she cleared her throat. “You know the security office? You ever notice there's nothing to do in there?”

“Not really,” Amata said with a shrug. “I don't exactly spend my spare time in custody.”

“Right.” Violet shifted her satchel. Another silence stretched between them, too long to be anything but awkward. “Well, I mean, I noticed. When I was there today, talking to—Officer Gomez.”

“And?” Amata's voice was neutral, but one of her brows rose. She didn't have to say anything else, the meaning behind the sardonic expression was clear.

“Don't look at me like that.” Violet looked away, focusing her attention on the corridor in front of her. “I just got to thinking. I'm the vault chaplain, and I'm responsible for the emotional well-being of my...flock, I guess.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And it seems kind of cruel to leave people in detention cells with nothing to occupy their minds.” She straightened up a little. “So I thought I'd do something about it.”

“That sounds...reasonable,” Amata said carefully. “What are you bringing him?”

“I'm not—“ she screwed her eyes shut for a moment, scrunching up her whole face, and then opened them with a sigh. “I'm not doing it for him. Not entirely! I do think it'd be good to have something to do in the cells. But I mean, he's there now, so technically I guess I'm bringing him something even if the ultimate goal—“

“You're babbling.”

“Books! Okay? I'm bringing him books.”

“Oh.” Amata smiled. “See, that's all you had to say. You don't think he's been punished enough, so you're messing with him. Can I come with you? I want to see the look on his face.”

“I'm not messing with him.” It was embarrassing to admit, but she felt like she had to be honest. “He's not entirely to blame for...you know, the thing last night, and I feel bad, okay?”

She leveled a skeptical look her way. “You know this is _Butch_ , right? What's he going to do with books? Eat them?”

Violet giggled a bit uneasily. “Maybe he could use the fiber.”

“You really do feel bad for him, don't you?” Amata said thoughtfully as they started to climb the stairs.

“Not for _him_. Just, in general. I feel so guilty. I never should have gotten him involved just because I wanted to do something stupid. I _definitely_ never should have made any trouble. It was dumb. And I think your dad's got something really nasty in store for me to punish me for it.” She sighed as they reached the top. “And the worst part is, I got myself into this mess, and I _know better_! I guess I lost my head. It's just this whole thing...”

“Sucks?”

“Yeah.”

Amata gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “It's okay to not be perfect, you know.”

“Stop being all encouraging and wise,” Violet grumped, “that's supposed to be my job.”

“Don't worry, you'll get your chance,” Amata said with a smile, but there was a hint of foreboding in the words. “Once everybody's married, they'll be breaking down your door begging for your guidance.”

Violet stared at her. Oh, damn. She hadn't thought of that. Without a proper counselor appointed in the vault, the job of working out marital problems would inevitably fall to her. She'd be doing a lot of comforting and mediating, even if nobody ever showed up for Sunday service.

“You look a little green,” Amata said with obvious concern. “Hey, it'll be okay.”

She _felt_ a little green, but managed a weak smile. “Yeah.”

“Look on the bright side, you'll get to hear all the best gossip first thing.”

“Amata...”

“And, while I realize this is selfish, your sage marriage advice will probably be the only thing standing between me and a homicide charge. Especially if I get stuck with _Butch_.”

“It's just a hunch, but I don't think you have to worry about that,” Violet said dryly. But she didn't dare try to explain how she knew what wasn't in Amata's future, not so openly.

“I hope you're right. The idea of me and DeLoria…?” Amata shuddered. “Ew. Can you imagine trying to run your fingers through that grease trap he calls hair? Just... _ew_.”

Violet said nothing, but thought briefly of Butch's hair as she'd last seen it: today, curly and wild; last night, tousled from sleep. She couldn't imagine running her fingers through it, because he was _him_ , but if she was objective about it and erased his face from the equation, she could...maybe...kind of imagine running her fingers through some like his. Without feeling grossed out or anything.

At last, they reached the atrium. Many of the other residents were already there, milling about, talking amongst themselves. Above, on the balconies, several security officers stood at attention with their weapons in hand. It looked properly ceremonial, but Violet couldn't shake the notion they looked more like they were expecting a riot.

Centered between them, a podium had been erected in front of the round glass window to the Overseer's office. With a sinking, sick feeling, she saw that hanging from it an unfurled poster proclaimed _Children Are The Future!_ It hung there, in a place of honor, like the assembled residents might need the reminder.

Well...this was definitely about the weddings, as the Overseer had hinted. She could only hope it wasn't going to be the pairing announcements yet. Just to be safe, Violet found a pillar to lean up against in case it was. She'd need something to keep her from falling over.

After a second, Amata's hand slipped into hers.

“Don't pass out. It's going to be okay.”

“Hey, Amata!”

Violet looked up. Susie Mack was cutting a path through the milling crowd, making straight for them with Christine right behind her. Those two had never had much to say to the Nerd Brigade, but maybe desperate times called for desperate measures.

Susie, she suddenly realized, was about to have her life changed in more ways than one. Teaching assistant had seemed as pointless a career track as chaplain, back when it was assigned. But in a few years, Susie was going to have a whole gaggle of snot-nosed little brats to wrangle every day.

Violet sincerely hoped they would all grow up to be atheists.

“What's going on?” Susie demanded.

“You think my dad keeps me in the loop? I won't find out until you do.”

Susie rolled her eyes, unconvinced. “Okay, fine, don't tell me.”

Above them, there was a sudden clatter that drew them out of their conversation. Boots slamming onto metal as the security detail straightened up and stood at attention, and the tapping of a gavel on the podium.

The Overseer had arrived.

He stood over them like a king presiding over his subjects, smiling thinly and raising his hands to command quiet. The residents complied, albeit a bit slower than he obviously would have liked, and the chit-chat died down.

“Good afternoon, Vault Dwellers,” he began. No one responded and the smile dimmed. “ _Good afternoon, Vault Dwellers_.”

“Good afternoon, Overseer,” the assembly murmured. The halfhearted greeting seemed good enough for him; his smile returned.

“That's better.” He _ahemed_. “I realize that this is highly irregular and that you all need to return to work to keep our vault running smoothly, so I will keep this brief. As Overseer, I've always preferred to discuss important matters with residents personally, but I feel, under the circumstances—” his eyes landed on Violet long enough for her to feel accused, then flicked away, “—a more unconventional approach might be best.”

No one but Amata seemed to notice his attention. She shot Violet a questioning look, but she shook her head and mouthed _later_.

“You are all aware, of course, of our dwindling population. What was a vital, thriving community is hanging on by the barest of threads.” The Overseer waited until a few in the crowd nodded. “And you are all aware that certain measures have been undertaken to counteract this. Genetic testing, arranged marriages. Nothing too unconventional in the great scheme of things, I'm sure you'll agree.”

The handful of nods were less sure in responding to this; there were doubtful looks, one or two teenage scowls.

“But I fear, after running a number of calculations and simulations: conventional means are insufficient for our needs.” He glanced around the room, sure to meet every set of eyes for a moment, and when he was sure the population would not protest, he continued. “There is no easy way to say this. In a case like ours, with a population so lacking in genetic variety, the traditional model of matrimony and all its rules are no longer viable.”

 _Well, here it comes_ , she thought bleakly. _Here's the part where he tells us some of the old married guys have to leave their wives for the sake of the vault._

“I'll spare you the definition of marriage as we know it, as it's unnecessary,” he said. “There are, at present, five young, unmarried ladies of childbearing age in our community—six, once Monica Kendall reaches adulthood. It should be quite plain that in lifelong marriages, even if each of them produced a _dozen_ children with their future husbands, the future genetic diversity of the vault would be even more dismal than it is today. Inbreeding with an _unacceptable_ level of genetic similarity would be inevitable within a generation or two.

“After much deliberation, I have devised a breeding program that will take care of this problem.” The Overseer tented his fingers and once again looked to each person in turn. “I propose short, temporary marital unions, lasting no more than eighteen months, between each girl and each appropriate male resident in the vault.”

The world as she knew it shifted under Violet's feet. Oh, god. Oh god oh god oh god. Her stomach rolled inside her as she thought of the notepads. The numbers under the girls initials weren't for potential husbands, they were for _children_. Genetically unique _children_.

“If every young lady produced, at minimum, six children, each one with a different man...”

Six! Violet almost laughed out loud. Numbers in the Overseer's handwriting danced in front of her eyes: _18, 21, 23_. He meant for them to have far more than six. She was going to faint.

“I know this is a great deal to take in,” the Overseer soothed, “but I assure you, the calculations are sound. Assuming one viable pregnancy carried to term every eighteen months, which is hardly an unrealistic number, in a decade's time, there will be three dozen children in the vault.” He turned his attention to the younger people in the atrium. “Imagine three times as many peers for your children as you had growing up! Three times as many possible mates! Wouldn't it be wonderful?”

A murmur of voices spread throughout the room.

“But there are only six boys,” someone said to the Overseer, quite shakily. Only after the words were out did she realize it was her own voice. She coughed to loosen up her voice and got a bit louder, “The genetic diversity might be a little better, but...”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” He looked at her so sternly her spine turned to custard. “While young ladies may only produce children until a certain age due to biology, there's no reason why older males—”

The murmuring became a roar.

“There is no reason why older males, like, say, Mister Brotch here, cannot impregnate—”

“Now, wait a minute!” “Are you suggesting—“ “Old enough to be my father!”

The Overseer banged his gavel on the podium, relentless with the racket until everyone quieted down. “This is for the good of the vault.”

“I am not heartless,” he continued. “You may all choose your own mates, and keep them for life, if you so desire— _after_ you have produced the minimum number of children for this program to be successful. Consider it incentive to procreate.”

 _Minimum number of children_. The words bounced around inside her skull. Six was the minimum. Based on the notes, twenty-three was the maximum. For her. Oh, she felt sick. Beside her, Amata wrung her hands together. Violet reached over to entwine their fingers, and clutched her tight.

“The first few years will be difficult, I realize, trading one spouse for another every year or so. But this will _work_! With your dedication, Vault 101 will thrive as it did in generations past. Our future is assured.

“Even setting aside the necessity of repopulating the vault, I would like you all to consider how much better this would be for all of you. Mere hours ago, you looked to the future and saw arranged marriages until death do you part. Isn't it kinder, isn't it _easier_ , to go along with a temporary arrangement?” He looked imploringly to the younger residents. “Wouldn't you prefer the opportunity to weigh your options—give cohabitation a try with someone for a year and a half—before finally settling down with anyone for life?”

Damn it, he found a way to make it sound reasonable instead of completely nuts.

“And for those of you already married, surely a few months apart is a small price to pay to preserve our way of life. To save an entire society from extinction?”

No one raised a protest. On paper, it was a sensible solution. The only arguments to be made against it were purely emotional, not logical. They all must have known it. Even those who weren't clever enough to figure it out from a rational standpoint would never question the Overseer. Violet slumped against the pillar in defeat.

“Please, consider our options. They are _severely_ limited.” He looked so fucking sincere it couldn't have been anything but fake, and cleared his throat. “The first round of matches have already been determined based on genetic testing. I see no reason to delay the announcements, if there are no objections.”

Everyone was too stunned by the news, and too preoccupied considering the Overseer's argument, to say much of anything. Christine quietly sniffled; Paul shook his head; Wally looked like he always did—like he was casually fantasizing about setting something on fire, but not terribly passionate about it.

The Overseer motioned to one of the guards, who snapped a stack of papers off the podium and moved toward the stairs. He said nothing more until he reached the group below.

“To ease the transition to married life,” the Overseer began, as the guard handed the little fliers out to the unmarried residents under twenty-five, “I also have taken into account the tender age of our brides to be. The first round of marriages will be among peers.”

Oh, how nice of him. They'd get to practice their fucking skills on boys their own age before they fell into bed with people they'd known since birth who were twice as old. Another urge to giggle nervously overtook her. She stuffed it down, but made a mental note to ask her father for a tranquilizer later. She might crack up, otherwise.

“Wally,” the Overseer said as Officer Richards passed the boy by, “I'm afraid you haven't been drawn this round. Perhaps next time.”

Richards pressed a paper into Violet's numb fingers, but she lost her grip on it as soon as it made contact. She shook herself and scooped it up from the floor where it landed as he moved to give one to Amata.

“I trust you all will see the sense of what I've said here today, and accept your future roles with the grace and dignity that befits your status as proud residents of Vault 101.” The Overseer stepped away from the podium. “I will field questions on a one-on-one basis in my office in the coming days, if you wish to discuss the matter further. You are dismissed.”

Sure, in his office, where he'd be heavily guarded. In his office, where nobody would go because they didn't want to sit through a private lecture.

Violet glanced at the paper in her trembling hands. The list was concise. Amata and Freddie. Susie and Steve Armstrong. Janice and Stevie Mack. Christine and Jim Wilkins.

And beside her own name—the giggle she'd been fighting bubbled out of her throat, full of disbelief and borderline hysteria—Butch DeLoria.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, there's an off-screen (non-explicit) attempted rape, some nasty male entitlement issues, internalized victim blaming and general depictions of rape culture-y grossness. Again, the attempted assault is not on screen and the emphasis is on coping/aftermath rather than the event itself, but heads up.

The school satchel slipped off her shoulder and thudded to the ground. Violet ignored it. She wasn't going to go to him _now_. He could stay locked up and bored for the rest of his life for all the cared. If she was lucky, maybe everyone would just forget that he was even in there.

Amata picked up the bag.

“Do you want me to—”

“I don't care. Keep it. I'm going to...hide. Forever.”

As she turned away, she heard Susie whisper, “That girl is such a drama queen.”

“Leave her alone,” Christine snapped, uncharacteristically angry. “She got Butch.”

“So? He's, like, _gorgeous_.”

“You are so clueless, Susie!”

Violet pushed her way through the crowd as it began to break up. She looked back only once, to see Amata with the bag over her shoulder, making her way toward either the holding cells, or her father's office. Violet didn't wait around to see which one it would be. 

* * *

She was sitting in her father's chair when he got back to the clinic, a minute or two after she did.

“Did you know?” she demanded. She wanted to trust him, the way she always had. She wanted to believe he was still on her side. But at this point, how could she?

“I knew that the marriages were intended to be temporary.” There was a certain rigidness in his voice and posture that indicated anger, tightly reined in. “The _implication_ was that everyone would be free to choose their own spouses after contributing to the program. _Once_.” He shook his head. “I should have questioned more than I did. I'm sorry, sweetheart.”

She knew, intellectually, that there was nothing he really could have done to stop any of this. In matters pertaining to the continuing stability of the vault, the Overseer could claim absolute authority. But that didn't stop the resentment that was simmering inside her.

“Did you know I was going to get paired with Butch?” she asked. “Did you know, and not bother to tell me?”

“You understand, of course, that it would be unethical to discuss confidential information such as the results of genetic testing.” He reached past her to turn on his computer. “If you'll excuse me, I have supplies to inventory.” He glanced briefly at the screen, then turned his back on her. 

“Dad!”

“This may take a few minutes. I'm sure you'll find some way to keep yourself occupied.”

Confused, she looked at the computer—which had been left open to the test results. Specifically, hers. Quickly, she scrolled through the file.

Butch...Butch was not her best genetic match.

First on the list was Jim, who would not have been a nightmare to be married to. They weren't really friends, but she remembered him as the nice older boy who'd let her borrow some of his comics when she was a little girl. But now he was about to be married to Christine.

Okay, so maybe he was also Christine's top match. In that case, it would make sense if she took precedence, since two of the potential husbands were her first cousins. With fewer potential matches, she would need to get her best genetic material in play early on.

But Violet's next best match was Paul. Paul, who she could have lived with in reasonable contentment. Paul, who had been left single. (A tiny part of her brain wondered why the Overseer hadn't singled him out at the assembly the way he had Wally, but she was too preoccupied to give it much thought beyond that initial sense of oddness.)

Butch was third. Still near the top of the list, but obviously not the best candidate available. Violet sat back in the chair, hard, and stared right through the green text in front of her eyes.

 _This_ was her punishment. As far as retribution went, she had to admit it was diabolically clever and quite sadistic. The Overseer knew their tumultuous history as well as anyone in the vault—better, perhaps. After all, he was in charge of the security officers who'd spent their whole lives breaking up fights between them and the teacher who saw them grow up and throw spitballs at each other.

 _So, y_ _ou like spending time with Mister DeLoria_ _now_ _, do you?_ she could imagine him thinking as he looked at the mess they'd made of his office; the half empty bourbon bottle, the notes they'd rifled through _. We'll just see about that_.

How long she sat there, staring aimlessly, she didn't know. But her father had enough time to duck out of the room for a minute and come back. He pointedly avoided looking at her until she vacated his seat. If he didn't _see_ her looking at the records, why, then it didn't happen.

“Good inventory, Dad?”

“Everything right where I left it,” he said, and reached over to switch off the terminal. “Imagine that.”

“Good.” Impulsively, she hugged him. She wasn't really a hugger, usually, and neither was he. But this seemed like a good time for it.

“You know,” he started, only to be interrupted by the door sliding open behind them. She didn't bother to complain. In eighteen years, it seemed like he had never been able to finish a thought without someone coming along to interrupt.

“Get off me!”

“Shut up!”

Oh, great. Tunnel Snakes. She turned her attention to the door and found two leather jackets there. Paul, cradling one of his hands to his chest like he'd hurt it, and draped over his shoulder like he was a crutch, Wally.

Wally's nose had been smashed in. Blood trickled over his lips, down his chin, and onto his vault suit. Rather than being grateful for the support Paul offered that he so obviously needed, he angrily kept trying to shrug him off. Paul's hand, Wally's nose...she put two and two together and the sum came out to _fist fight_.

“Get the _fuck_ off me, man!”

Her father crossed the room in two purposeful steps, and relieved Paul of his disagreeably bleeding burden in time to keep him from taking a swing. He slipped under Wally's arm with ease, said “I'll take it from here,” and half dragged him to the nearest cot. Paul watched him go, looking _almost_ as sour.

Once he'd gotten Wally situated, her father glanced back at her and tipped his head toward Paul. “Violet?”

Snapping out of her daze, she bustled over to Paul's side and ushered him to another cot on the opposite side of the room. Up close, she got a good look at his hand. Two of the fingers bent at unnatural angles; they'd need to be set.

“Wow, that's a lot of damage,” she said. “I thought you guys were _good_ at punching.”

“He pissed me off,” Paul muttered.

She slanted a look Wally's way. “I can see that. What happened?”

Paul stared at her a moment, like he was on the verge of telling her something, then looked away. “It's Tunnel Snakes stuff. You wouldn't understand.”

“Probably not.” Violet reached into one of the cabinets to retrieve a couple of finger splints and an aspirin tablet. He'd have done better with a hit of Med-X, but finger injuries were "minor" according to the rationing guidelines. He'd have to make do. “Chew this up. It'll take the edge off faster that way.”

She excused herself and hurried to the sink in the next room to wash her hands and fill a cup with water so he could wash the bitter aspirin taste from his mouth. When she returned and handed him the cup, he all but inhaled its contents.

She checked him over with the portable scanner and, finding nothing more serious than a small fracture and a dislocation under all the swelling, proceeded to set and splint the fingers, an easy enough operation. He winced through the discomfort, but didn't complain.

“I hope he deserved it,” she said. Not that she could imagine Wally ever _not_ deserving to get his face punched in. Paul just shrugged.

There was a loud, “Fuck!” from across the room. Either Wally's nose was harder to set than Paul's fingers, or her dad wasn't trying to be gentle. Or both. Wally had spent a lot of time in their clinic over the years, and his attitude wasn't exactly calculated to make friends. He always got the appropriate medical treatment, but...well, even doctors were only human.

Paul had always been more polite than the other Tunnel Snakes. She hesitated to say he was _nicer_ , since he always went along with the other two, but she had never known him to be the one to initiate a conflict. And if it came down to a fight between the guys, Paul was the one who usually ended up with his face rearranged. Wally must have done something really awful to get Paul that angry.

“You'll need to keep this elevated for a while,” she said as she finished taping the splints. “And don't use your hand too much, obviously. Let me get you an ice pack.”

“Okay.” He hesitated. “Hey, you're a girl, right?”

“As far as I know.”

He frowned at that, but he wasn't as confused by it as certain other Tunnel Snakes might have been.

“I, um...Oh, never mind.” His frown deepened. “Do you like Freddie?”

“Sure, I guess.” She knew Paul hung around with him sometimes, and that he'd wanted to join the gang for years. Butch and Wally were pretty clearly just stringing him along, but Paul seemed to actually like the guy. Was that what they had been fighting about?

“Does Amata like Freddie?”

“Not especially.” She had been pretty mean to him in school, but more recently she didn't seem to have noticed him at all.

“Does she like Butch?”

“Absolutely not!” _Nobody_ liked Butch. Except Susie, maybe, but she probably just didn't know any better. Even his fellow Tunnel Snakes didn't seem to care about him all that much. From what she saw, they were closer to being henchmen than genuine friends, the sort who hung around him more to ensure he wouldn't beat them up rather than because they actually enjoyed his company. “Why do you ask?”

Paul's shoulders rose and fell in a quick shrug, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. Violet frowned at him, but didn't press for more information. She reached into the nearest storage cabinet and pulled out an ice pack, snapped the capsule inside and shook it until it got cold in her hands. They were a pain in the ass to recycle and repackage, but damn if they weren't useful.

After running her fingers over the back of his hand, pressing down between his knuckles and along the metacarpals to check for any other minor fractures she might have missed, she laid the pack on his skin. “Hold that.”

With Paul taken care of for the time being, she went to check on her father's progress. Wally glared at her as she approached, as best he could with her father's fingers pressing into the bridge of his nose from either side.

“How's it going over here?” she asked.

“How d'you think it's going, spaz—ow!”

“Sorry,” her dad said dryly.

“What do you even want, nerd? Trying to work your way through the whole gang? You let me know when you get tired of Butch.”

Her father double checked the break now that he'd set it, perhaps a little harder than necessary because it made Wally wince, and murmured, “I can't imagine why anyone would want to break your nose.”

“It's because Paul's a little puss, that's why!” Wally shoved his hands away and jumped off the cot. “Lay off me, man, or you'll be fixing your own face.”

He snapped up his jacket and stomped to the clinic door, like a toddler in the middle of a tantrum.

“Hey, Wally—”

“Fuck off, Paul!” he shouted from the hallway.

The door slipped shut behind him, leaving the clinic shrouded in awkward silence.

“What a pleasant young man,” her dad commented casually.

She followed him back over to Paul, wondering, not for the first time, how those three had ever become friends in the first place. Besides their jackets, the only real similarity between them she could discern was one of age. Maybe there was a bit of similarity in their dispositions—but only in Butch and Wally's case, and even then they seemed to like punching things for completely different reasons.

Her father checked her work over and seemed satisfied after a few minor adjustments.

“If I may make a suggestion,” he said to Paul, his voice as wry as she had ever heard it. “You want to hit with your knuckles, not the flats of your fingers. I assume, of course, that punching him was absolutely necessary.”

“Uh, yeah?” For a second, he was too confused to be sullen.

Violet couldn't help feeling a little surprised, herself. How did her dad know how to throw a punch? And why was he giving advice to one of the Tunnel Snakes?

“For cause of injury, should I write 'self defense'?”

“Um...” Paul shrugged. “I guess. I mean...” He stared at his feet, shuffled them a little, and shrugged again. “It's...forget it. Self defense is fine.” He looked up. “I gotta go.”

She stared after him curiously as he headed for the door. When it opened, he faltered and looked back at her.

“She tried to switch with you.” he said.

Violet's brow furrowed. “What?”

“Amata.”

She just looked at him, puzzled. Like that explained anything?

“Wally's kind of pissed that all the girls want Butch. So, um...bye.” He fled, leaving her feeling more confused than ever.

She ran after him and grabbed him by the arm before he could get both feet out in the corridor. “Hang on!”

“C'mon, man,” his voice was dangerously close to whiny, “can't you just leave it?”

She dragged him back into the clinic so they weren't having this conversation out in the hallway. He didn't fight her. “This—the punching—was about Amata?”

“Well, I mean...yeah? Kinda. More about what Wally was going to do to her. I don't want to talk about it.”

Violet frowned. Wally got a punch in the face for something he tried to do to Amata. Something bad enough to make Paul stand up to him instead of look the other way. Over the years he'd gone along with just about everything the Tunnel Snakes did, no matter how dangerous or immature. What they _hadn't_ done was a pretty short list, and at the top of it was the sort of depravity she hoped none of them were capable of. She looked to her father and found his jaw twitching; he'd drawn the same conclusion.

She opened her mouth to say something, but her dad gestured for her to stay quiet.

“Paul,” he said in a tight, warning voice, “should I be expecting Amata to arrive with injuries anytime soon?”

He was a lot more tactful than she would have been. She was about five seconds away from shaking Paul until the details flew out. What _exactly_ did Wally do? Was Amata okay? Did they leave her somewhere alone and scared and hurt?

The sulk dropped away, and Paul said, meekly, “It's not that bad. Maybe a bruise. Please don't tell him I told.”

Her father pursed his lips, but his posture relaxed and the twitch in his jaw lessened. “Would you care to elaborate on the nature of the assault?”

Paul winced and looked anywhere but at the two of them. “Look, don't make me say it, okay? She's okay. He went berserk, and I knew what he was going to do, so I stopped him before he got very far.”

“How far is not very far?” Violet's voice shook, but how much was concern and how much was _rage_ was impossible to gauge. She was already ready to beat Wally's face right out the back of his head herself. Her dad laid a hand on her arm to comfort and steady her.

“He grabbed her. Slammed her into a wall. Yelled. Scared her a little.” Paul shifted anxiously. “But I _stopped_ him, okay? Amata's fine.”

Violet reeled with shock and found her fists clenched. “I'm going to fucking kill him!”

“ _Language_ ,” her dad warned, and the puritanical reaction seemed a bit absurd in the face of Wally fucking Mack trying to rape her best friend.

“I—am going—to fucking—kill him,” she repeated.

“No, you are not,” he said firmly. “You are going to find and comfort your friend, and if she wishes to file a report with security, you're going to support her. You will leave the murdering to someone better equipped to carry it out, is that clear?”

It sounded like a joke, but his expression was dead serious. He wanted to beat the shit out of Wally too. The realization made her feel a little better, even if he was being all reasonable and prudent about not murdering the little shit willy-nilly.

“Where is she?” Violet demanded.

“Locked herself in a storage room after I knocked Wally down,” Paul said. “One of the ones by the security offices. If she's even still there.”

“Paul,” her dad's voice warmed up a little, coaxing instead of chastising, “I trust that if Amata chooses to report this incident, you will be willing to do the same.”

“She won't report it. There's no point.” He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. There was an undercurrent of hoping she'd keep quiet so he wouldn't have to get even more involved, but he also seemed uncomfortable with that feeling.

“There is if she decides there is. I hope you'll do the right thing if she does.”

“His dad will just make it go away.”

“ _Your_ father is chief of security!” Violet shouted. “Don't act like you're some helpless bystander! Don't act like your word won't carry any weight!”

“ _Violet._ ” Her dad shot her a stern look. An, _I'm trying to handle this_ look. “Please.”

She made an impotent angry sound, and dropped the accusing finger she'd pointed at Paul without realizing.

“My dad doesn't listen to me,” Paul said miserably. “No one listens to me.”

“I'm listening now.” Her dad gently moved her aside so that he could place a comforting hand on Paul's shoulder. “If you'd prefer, I can file a report with the details here—a confidential, sealed record of a witness to the event, unless Amata decides to report what happened. Better to put it all down in writing while it's fresh.”

“Wally'll knife me if he finds out I snitched.”

“It's been a hectic day,” her dad continued soothingly. “I might forget to mention who brought the issue to my attention. I assume this happened where someone else _may_ have seen it?”

Paul wet his bottom lip, considering. Then gave a short nod. “Okay.”

“Good man.” Her dad looked at her and subtly tipped his head in the direction of one of the medical cabinets. The one that held the stimpaks. “Perhaps you'd better go find Amata.”

Violet wasted no time.

* * *

There were half a dozen storage rooms 'near' the security offices. She started with the one closest and worked her way forward until she found one that wouldn't open at a touch. This had to be it. Violet lacked the hacking skills necessary to bypass the lock through the wiring, and she broke two hairpins off in the lock, so she was left to knock on the door with as much stealth as possible. Which...wasn't much, honestly.

“Amata?” BANG BANG BANG.

She waited for several long moments, listening hard for anything coming from behind the steel door. Nothing.

“Amata!” She banged a few more times.

Still nothing. She raised her fist to pound on the door again.

“Amata! It's Violet!” She shrieked when a hand closed over her shoulder, and spun on her heel.

Her friend stood behind her, face a little blotchy like she'd been crying. “I can hear you.”

Violet leaned over and looked down the corridor, past her friend and saw the door to the next storage room over had yawned wide open—the one room she hadn't gotten to yet. “I thought...”

“It's broken,” Amata said, nodding at the door she'd been fruitlessly pounding on. “Just the wiring. Stanley's supposed to fix it this week.”

“Oh.” Violet glanced at the lock, and the two hairpins lodged inside, and looked back at her rather guiltily. “Well, it's twice as broken now. Uh. Whoops.”

Amata gave her a weak smile that wobbled and fell as fast as it appeared.

“Do you want to talk?”

“Do I have to?” She was trying to make a joke of it, but she was clearly upset. Violet considered pulling her friend close for a hug, but she worried that, to Amata's raw nerves, it would feel like an attack.

“You don't have to do anything you're not ready to do. Here, I brought you a stimpak.” She produced it from inside her sleeve and held it out to her awkwardly.

“Those are restricted. You'll get in trouble.”

“The inventory has a way of evening itself out.” She kept the stimpak in plain sight, giving Amata plenty of opportunity to take it if she decided she needed to.

Amata looked around the corridor and gave a stiff nod. “Not here.”

She beckoned toward the open doorway, and Violet followed. Once inside, Amata carefully rolled up her right sleeve to reveal a nasty-looking bruise circling her arm just above the elbow. It didn't take a detective to spot the shape of fingers and a thumb.

Violet _was_ going to fucking kill him. She slowly let out a breath and carefully schooled her expression into one that didn't spell _murder._ “Anywhere else?”

“My back.” Amata briefly looked away, then back again. “I hit the wall pretty hard.”

It was hard not to notice her phrasing. Not, _Wally threw me pretty hard_ , but, _I hit the wall pretty hard._ Like she'd done it to herself. “May I see?”

Amata's fingers found the zipper to her vault suit and fumbled it; she was trembling. But so slightly she could've played it off if she weren't being watched so closely.

“You don't have to,” Violet said quickly.

She blew out a short sigh of relief and flashed a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Violet gently looped her fingers around Amata's wrist and maneuvered her arm so she could administer the injection. She winced when the needle went in, but they didn't speak as the stimpak drained its contents. When that was done, Amata started rolling the sleeve back down.

“So...” She cleared her throat, but her voice still didn't get much louder than a whisper. “Paul?”

Violet nodded.

“Figures.” She leaned back against the nearest wall and slid down to the floor with a _plop_. Violet sat down beside her with her legs folded up. “Was Wally's nose at least broken?”

“And _how.”_

“ _Good,”_ she said with completely excusable pleasure, “I hope it heals crooked.”

“If it doesn't,” Violet bumped her shoulder against hers, “we could always break it again.”

“I like that idea.” Amata shifted and glanced at her. “Listen, could you just—“ She hesitated, then started again, “like—I need—“ She buried her face in her hands out of frustration with her own inability to say what she wanted, “Oh, this is so _stupid_!”

Violet put her arm around Amata's shoulders, who immediately slumped into the embrace.

“I'm sorry,” she muttered with her head on Violet's shoulder. “He didn't even _do_ anything. I'm just being dumb.”

“You're not being dumb, I promise.” She wanted to point out that whatever, specifically, Wally had done, it was obviously not nothing, but she didn't want Amata fixating on what _could_ have happened. “You don't have to be sorry. You're not the one who did anything wrong.”

“I could have—I shouldn't have—” She sighed. “I let him corner me. I know better than to let him get me alone.”

“Still not your fault.” Violet looked at her. “Has he done this before?”

“No! No.” She scrubbed her hand over her face. “But he's disgusting. He's always been disgusting. It was just a matter of time before he did more than talk, right? I should have known.”

“Would it have made a difference? Made him less of a creep?”

“I...” She might have been ready to agree, but instead she shook her head and hunched closer to Violet. “At least I should have known _this_ would set him off. 'Congratulations, gentlemen,'” she said, in a fair imitation of her father's voice. “'There's a sex sweepstakes, and you're all winners! Except you, Wally. You get to sit in the corner and be sexually frustrated for a year and a half.'”

“Yes, and clearly you made that happen, _and_ forced him to react the way he did. Practically held a gun to his head, didn't you?” She gave Amata's shoulders a squeeze. “I notice Paul's not going around assaulting anyone, and _he's_ staying single.”

“Actually...”

“What, he's not? But there's no one left!” All the unmarried women between eighteen and thirty had been paired off.

“Mary Holden.”

“She's already married!” Violet squeaked. She'd been one of her maids of honor, even! “She's _been_ married for three years!”

“Right, and no kids yet.”

She slouched back against the wall. She didn't even have the energy to be surprised anymore. Mary was still of childbearing age. If she wasn't sterile, and hadn't gotten pregnant by now, then it just wasn't going to happen with Tom. She almost laughed for not thinking about the possibility sooner. The Overseer was already willing to extract husbands from their marriages for the sake of the breeding program, why not wives, too? He wouldn't let a good womb go to waste like that, now would he?

“My Dad told me when I went to talk to him, and I might have—“ She sighed again. “Wally was being an ass and I let it slip. In the most insulting terms I could think of.”

“Oh.”

“And then he attacked me.” Violet patted her arm comfortingly. “Like it's _my_ fault nobody wants to touch his dick!”

Well, that was better. The angrier she was at Wally, the less blame she would take on herself.

“Can you even imagine?” Violet asked. “It's probably glowing.”

“What?”

“Well, I assume he got desperate and spent a romantic night with a radroach. I mean, who else would willingly go near him?”

Amata giggled, but she sobered quickly.

“We're going to have to, you know. Not now, maybe, but next round, or the one after that.”

“You won't,” Violet assured her. “After this, your dad will take him off your list.” Just like he did with Butch, she didn't add.

“Yeah, great,” she murmured. “He'll be unleashed on some other girl instead of me. And once they're married, she won't have Paul around to protect her. That's just super.”

Violet made a face. After everything else, she wasn't naive enough to think the Overseer would remove Wally from the program entirely. That would have been too much to hope for. “There's got to be something we can do.”

“Like?”

“I don't know, but we'll think of something. In the meantime, at least we can keep an eye on each other.” It might not solve the problem of what would happen to his eventual wife behind closed doors, but god willing there was at least a year, maybe a year and a half between then and now to figure something out. “Hey, I bet I know something that would make you feel better,” she said coaxingly.

“Yeah? What?”

“Butch is still in lockup. You want to go make faces at him through the glass?” Maybe they couldn't do anything about Wally, but at least they could go pick a fight with one of his friends. And there was nothing Butch could do to stop them.

“I swear, you're the best friend I ever could have asked for,” Amata said. Violet smiled.

“So are you. Paul told me how you tried to switch with me.”

“How could I not?” Amata huffed. “Of all the guys to stick you with.”

“Eh,” Violet got to her feet and offered her a hand, “it might not be so bad. I can always poison his food if he gets out of line.”

Once she was standing, Amata scooped up the school satchel that lay abandoned on the other side of the storage room. “Maybe we could poison Wally.”

Violet smirked. “Let's call that Plan B.”

* * *

Officer Gomez would have let them do what they wanted, as long as they didn't do any actual harm to the prisoner under his care. But Officer Gomez was off duty. Instead, the younger Officer Mack met them at the door.

Amata flinched at the sight of him. Without even having to think about it, Violet stepped protectively in front of her friend. Stevie Mack had never done much to either of them, not like Wally had, but he was still Wally's brother, and they knew what kind of person he was.

Amata shouldn't have to stay in the same room with a Mack, Violet decided, not at a time like this. They could make fun of Butch just as easily from _inside_ the cell.

“We need to get into the holding cell,” she announced. Stevie raised an eyebrow.

“No, you don't.”

“Uh, yes, we do.” Her confidence was going to desert her if he didn't back down, but she didn't know how else to handle this.

“No one talks to the DeLoria kid. Overseer's orders.”

“Ex _cuse_ me,” she said sharply. “I am following my duty as the chaplain of this vault, tending to the spiritual welfare of one of my—my—wayward lambs.” That sounded religious, didn't it? “There is no higher authority than that of the great Overseer of us all.”

He looked unsure.

Violet puffed herself up, hoping she looked convincingly judge-y. “Are you really going to argue with a representative of _the Lord_?”

“Overseer's orders,” he repeated stubbornly. Amata stepped out from behind Violet, hands on her hips.

“Do you seriously think we would have come here without my father's approval?” she demanded in her haughtiest tones. “If you don't trust the word of the Lord's _and_ the Overseer's representatives, you can go ahead and call my father. I'm sure he won't mind the interruption, he's not busy _at all_.”

Violet watched him teeter between the options and finally topple in their favor. “All right. Five minutes.”

“Make it ten and you won't be burning garbage this time next week.”

“Don't push it, girlie.” He opened the door, and they seized the opportunity and scurried inside.

Butch was sitting on the bed tucked into a ball with his forehead resting on his knees, more asleep than awake, but his head popped up at the sound of the door _clunk_ ing shut.

“You came back.” For a second, he actually looked happy to see her, until his expression twisted into something smarmy and gross. “I knew you couldn't get enough of me.” He glanced at Amata, and his smirk slipped. “What's she doing here?”

“Oh, don't mind me,” said Amata. “I'm just here to gloat. You look like shit, Butch.”

“Yeah? Well, so's your face.”

“Don't start,” Violet grumbled. “Here, I brought you some crap.” She swung the satchel at him, harder than she would have if she'd been in a better mood. He fumbled to catch it.

“Why would you—Is it a bomb?”

“When exactly do you think I would have had time to make a bomb?”

“Oh, right, you were at that assembly thing. What was that all about?” he asked without much interest, as he pulled back the satchel's flap.

Hadn't anyone told him anything? No, she realized, of course not. No one was supposed to be allowed to speak to him.

Was _that_ part of the punishment, too? Pairing her up with the most hotheaded guy in the vault, and then waiting to spring the news on him at the last minute? Was the Overseer hoping to provoke a violent reaction? Or was she reading too much into this?

“V,” Amata said softly, “do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell me what?” Butch was holding up the dry vault suit, looking perplexed. When neither of them said anything, he turned his attention to them. “Are you two gonna turn around, or did you _want_ to watch me get undressed? I mean...” The smirk crept back into place. “Not that I can blame you. It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so—”

“ _Shut up, Butch_!” Violet spun around to turn her back on him, dragging Amata around with her, feeling like she might burst into tears. Or punch him. Or both.

“Jeez, touchy, touchy.” She heard the thump of his empty boots hitting the floor, followed by the damp vault suit a few seconds later. Evidently, he didn't care if Stevie saw him naked, although a glance at the window showed her that Stevie was talking to someone out in the hallway, paying them no attention whatsoever.

“Butch, I have to tell you something.”

“What else did you bring me? Books? You're so lame.”

A glance over her shoulder showed her that he was safely enveloped in her father's suit, which was a little baggy on his leaner frame. Her dad had been putting on weight since he'd passed forty.

And they'd all be the same by the time they were free.

“Butch, seriously—”

“Crisps! I changed my mind, you're the _best_.” He tore open the package and stuffed a handful in his mouth.

“Butch, we have to get married.”

“Yeah,” he said with his mouth still full. “I know that.”

“I mean _to each other._ ”

He stopped chewing, if one could call the sideshow of gargling his food anything so civilized as chewing. A single fleck of potato crisp stuck to his half-open mouth and he _stared_ at her.

Then he burst out laughing. 

“Pull the other one,” he said through his guffaws, before cramming his mouth full again, “it's got bells on it.”

“Don't talk with your mouth full,” Amata muttered, looking away in disgust. “Come on, Violet, let's get out of here.”

They were both heading for the door when Butch's obnoxious laughter suddenly cut off, interrupted by a coughing fit. Violet raised her hand to bang on the door anyway. He'd be fine.

Amata was the one who hesitated.

“Is he…?”

The coughing devolved into a series of gasping squeaks. Reluctantly, Violet turned to look at him.

“Butch, are you choking?”

He sat doubled over, both hands at his throat, shoulders jerking as he struggled to draw a breath.

Well, it served him right, didn't it? For one regrettable moment, she wondered what would happen if she just left him there. But that was a horrible thing to even consider, and besides, without Butch, she'd just get stuck with Wally.

“Get my dad down here, call him on the intercom,” she ordered Amata. “Don't panic, Butch, I'll save your stupid ass.”

She sat on the bed beside him and looped an arm around his chest to keep him from falling over. He tried to say something, but he couldn't get enough air to make a sound.

“I will treasure this moment for the rest of my life,” she said. He grunted raggedly and tried to grab her by the arm. “Okay, okay, relax.” She thumped him hard between the shoulder blades.

The first attempt did nothing, but on the third try, a clump of soggy potato bits landed in a wet heap on the floor. Butch gasped. 

“Fu—fuck,” he croaked, still coughing, but with some force behind it now. At least he was getting air into his lungs. “You're—trying to kill me.”

“You realize I could have let you choke to death just now, right?”

He glared at her, still coughing hard enough for tears to gather at the corner of his eyes. “Just means the Black Widow had a sudden change of heart. What was it,” he made a little strangling sound and another, smaller wad of pulverized potato shot out of his mouth, “my winning smile? The killer bod?” 

“It sure wasn't your table manners.”

“So you admit it!”

“That I wouldn't mind seeing you dead? Sure, I admit it.”

Butch pulled away from her, looking sort of alarmed.

“That's not funny.”

“You started it!” But, seeing his face, she relented and rolled her eyes. “Of course I don't want you dead. I'm just being a jerk. You of all people should know what _that_ looks like.”

“Violet?” Amata called from the open doorway. Violet left Butch without a backward glance. Amata sounded upset—as upset as she had been a few minutes ago, in the supply room.

“What is it...” She trailed off as she walked back into the main security office, and came face to face with Wally Mack.

He gave Amata the kind of disdainful look that should have been reserved for radroach guts on the bottom of his shoe, while Stevie Mack handed him a clipboard with a pink sheet of paper and a pencil. She'd seen enough of those to know it was an incident report.

“What's going on?”

“Apparently, Wally was assaulted,” Amata said stiffly.

“Yeah, Paul just went crazy,” said Wally, giving them both a look that dared them to contradict him. “Broke my nose for no reason.”

Violet glanced at Amata, looking for permission to say otherwise, but she'd shut down. Eyes blank, lips thinned. Her hands, fisted at her sides, were turning white. Violet wasn't about to say what had really happened if Amata didn't want her to, but she sent a hot glare Wally's direction that told him _she_ knew what he'd done, even if he was going to try and spin it. 

“Looks fine to me,” she said, choosing to ignore the slight swelling.

“The doc fixed me up,” he said, looking at her pleasantly in spite of her expression.

“Oh, then you'll need to include his statement in the incident report.” She glanced at Amata for confirmation; Amata nodded slightly. She'd already called him. Good. Violet's father would make them include Paul's side of the story. 

But Wally didn't seem bothered.

“No big deal. I'm not pressing charges against my _best friend_ ,” he said innocently. “I just want this on record, you know, in case anything _else_ happens.”

“'Anything else' as in someone deciding to press charges against _you_?”

“Well, sure,” he said with a shrug. “If some dumb bitch wants to spread lies about me, I'll have the evidence on my side.”

 _Hit with the knuckles, not the flats of the fingers._ The words popped into her head, and her fist shot out, before she made the conscious decision to hit him. She punched him three times in quick, sharp jabs, mostly not even thinking about it, but some small part of her brain distantly hoping to crush his stupid smug face into paste.

And then she was pinned to the floor on her face with Stevie Mack's knee in her spine. 

“What the fuck!” Wally yelled, his voice muffled by his hands as he tried to stop the blood gushing from his nose. He drew back his foot to kick her.

“Don't you dare!” Amata snatched the forgotten incident report from the floor and swung the clipboard around to beat Wally over the back of the head.

A second later, Stevie's weight came off her as someone— _Butch—_ tackled him. Nobody had remembered to lock the cell door. 

He locked eyes with her as he and Stevie crashed to the floor. 

“What? You think I'm gonna miss all the fun?”

“Shouldn't you be on _their_ side?”

“Hey, man, root for the underdog.” He drew back to punch Stevie, cracked him right across the jaw and sent his helmet skittering across the floor.

The helmet was still rocking back and forth when Amata knocked Wally into the desk. He went over it backwards, dragging a desk lamp down with him and sending papers flying every which way. Before he could get his bearings, Amata picked up the dented lamp and clocked him with it.

“Good going, kid,” Butch cheered. Then he had to roll to the side to avoid a swat from Stevie's nightstick.

Wally wasn't getting up. Stevie, on the other hand, was back on his feet, weapon in hand, coming at Butch with relentless swings of the nightstick that he was just barely able to dodge.

Well, she was already in trouble. She might as well go all the way, and keep the jerk from getting his head bashed in. Violet threw herself at Stevie's back. The impact wasn't quite enough to knock him down—maybe she was getting better at punching, but she didn't know much about throwing her weight around effectively—but he staggered sideways and fell into the nearest wall.

Before he had a chance to do anything about it, Amata pounced, dragging down the arm that held the nightstick. Butch laughed.

“You guys are the greatest! I shoulda let _you_ in the gang.”

“Shut up, Butch,” they said together.

The sound of a door opening froze them all in place. Violet gathered her courage and looked back at the doorway to the corridor, where her father was standing, doctor's bag in hand.

He pinned each of them with a sharp gaze—Wally, slumped over the desk in a puddle of his own blood; Violet and Amata, caught in the act of attacking a security guard; Butch, hunched over with his hands on his knees, out of breath and giddy, and still covered in potato mush and soot.

“I can explain...” It sounded so trite, but what else could she say?

“Yeah, she can explain,” Butch agreed.

“ _We_ can explain,” said Amata.

The doctor sighed and looked at Butch again.

“Is that my vault suit?” he asked mildly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this update, there's a bit more rape culture/internalized victim blaming, but it's very brief and toward the beginning of the chapter.

The bed in the holding cell, perfectly sufficient for a single prisoner, was rather cramped for three. But there was nowhere else to sit, so Violet and Amata sat crowded into the corner, with Butch mere inches away at the foot of the bed, leafing through the books she had brought and trying to ignore them.

Violet might have hoped that her father would overrule Stevie and bring them all to the clinic, but there were consequences for assaulting a security officer, and, in Butch’s case, for apparently attempting to escape custody.

So there they all were, improbable allies stuck together while Stevie Mack glowered at them through the window. At least Wally was gone. That was something worth celebrating.

Wally needed medical attention. He didn't deserve it, as far as Violet was concerned, but he did need it. A concussion resulting in loss of consciousness, even if it lasted less than a minute, was a serious matter. Even if her dad couldn’t do much else to help them, he _would_ keep Wally in isolation, at least overnight.

Violet found that thought extremely satisfying. She hoped he was bored to tears. She hoped he was incapacitated by his headache. She hoped he was never able to breathe through his nose for the rest of his life.

“Where did you learn to punch like that?” Amata asked as she examined Violet's knuckles. They were swollen, but generally in much better shape than Wally's face. Amata lowered her voice to a whisper. “Did Butch teach you?”

“For the last time, I don't even _like_ Butch!” Violet didn’t whisper. There didn’t seem to be much point.

“I don't like you, either,” he said, without looking up. The girls paid him no mind.

“I know you don't like him,” Amata said, “but I'm starting to think he likes you.”

“Hey! I do not,” Butch protested.

“Butch doesn't like me,” Violet assured her friend. “There is no _liking_ going on around here. And my dad's the one who—well, I happened to be there when he gave Paul some advice. He broke his hand, you know.”

“Oh,” Amata whispered, face crumpling into a guilty frown. With her unbruised hand, Violet grasped her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“He’ll be all right. Listen, do you, um...” The urge to offer a sympathetic ear was there, but Violet didn’t want to push, especially with Wally’s maybe-sort-of best friend sitting _right there_. She knew Amata well enough to realize that knocking Wally out with a lamp wasn't going to make her magically get over it. She would keep trying to turn the blame around on herself until she worked it out, verbally, that her anger was both logical and justified.

Amata glanced at Butch, but he was busy searching through Violet's book bag. Ten to one odds he was looking for something with pictures in it. She dropped her voice back down to a whisper, for all the good that would do.

“My dad called Paul up to talk about—you know, Mary. I guess Wally went with him. They were still hanging around outside when I went up to...” Her gaze slid over to Butch again. He had found the gumdrops, and appeared to be trying to decide whether or not they were safe to eat. “Of course Dad was totally unreasonable about it, you'd think I was trying to become a communist or something, but anyway, Wally heard, and he didn't like it.”

“Paul mentioned that Wally was jealous because 'all the girls want Butch.' I can't believe you really tried to trade with me. You're a true friend. Nuts, maybe, but a true friend.”

“Well, I mean, it's Butch, but I hate him less than you do.” Her mouth curled into a faint smile. “At least, I always _thought_ so.”

“Amata!”

“Hey, you're the one who decided to become his new drinking buddy, not me.”

They both looked over at Butch, but he still wasn't paying them any attention. He was looking at her issue of _La Fantoma!_ , a Spanish language comic book that one of the original vault dwellers had brought from Mexico. She doubted that Butch could read Spanish, but then, neither could she. The artwork was beautiful enough even without the story, though, and perhaps more important, La Fantoma, the master thief, was a real fox.

(But not literally. It wasn't that kind of comic book.)

“Okay, so now he's only my _second_ least favorite person in the world,” said Violet. “Some improvement. Could be worse, I guess.”

“Could be Wally,” Amata agreed. Then she shook her head and gave her friend a too-bright grin. “Never mind about that. How's your hand?”

“Hardly even bruised.” But Butch wasn't even as bad off as she was, even though she knew he had clobbered Stevie a lot harder than the little jabs she'd thrown at his brother. She was going to have to find out what he was doing differently. “I think you're the smart one here, using a lamp.” She meant for that to make Amata smile, but instead it had the opposite effect.

“I shouldn't have hit him. Now he has a reason to be angry.”

Butch said something under his breath that she could have sworn sounded like, “That's bullshit.” But even if he had a problem with Wally attacking Amata—which she _hoped_ he did, but couldn't say for sure—there was no way he would care how Amata _felt_ about it. When she looked over at him, he still had his nose in her comic book. Probably not even listening. Probably just commenting on La Fantoma's far-fetched gymnastic skills. But still, she lowered her voice even more.

“Look, I know you don’t like going to your dad with all your problems, but...do you want to tell him about this?”

“No!” Amata said quickly. “I mean, I’ll try to get him to take Wally out of the program, but I can’t ask him to, I don’t know, lock Wally in a bathroom for the rest of his life so I never have to see him again. You know what he’d say.”

Violet couldn’t blame her. She _did_ know what he would say. The Tunnel Snakes had harassed Amata all throughout school, and while it had never gone farther than nasty cracks and mocking laughter, there were a few times when the threat of more had been transparent. And Violet remembered hearing some of the lectures Amata had gotten for supposedly “leading them on.”

“Well, whatever you decide to do, you can count on me.”

“I know I can.”

They shared an encouraging smile, but the sound of the cell opening cut the moment short.

Both Violet and Amata looked up to see the Overseer standing in the doorway. Butch, preoccupied with a mouthful of gumdrops, glanced up a bit late.

“ _You two_.” While Violet had never considered him a physically imposing man, in the cramped space of the cell the Overseer seemed to tower over them. She felt herself shrink back in the face of his anger. “I should have known.”

“Dad!” Amata protested, starting to get to her feet.

“Sit down, Amata.” He didn’t even look at his daughter, utterly dismissing her from his attention. “ _You_.” He jabbed a finger at Violet’s face, so sudden she flinched, anticipating that he meant to hit her. “You have been nothing but trouble for this vault since _day one_.”

Butch snickered, maybe at the memory of what a _failure_ she was at making trouble, or maybe at the thought of her raising a rebellion straight out of the womb.

“And you!” the Overseer shouted, swinging around to face him.

“What? What’d _I_ do?” Butch leaned forward, a threatening enough physical presence that the Overseer actually took a step back. “Nice of you to show up when the fight’s over, asshole. Do you even care what really happened, or do you just want to take your _dog’s_ word for it?”

A twitch crossed the Overseer’s face; Violet couldn’t help thinking that there was some significance to the exchange that she failed to comprehend. But he was quick to recover his poise.

“Amata, get up. You’re leaving.” Amata looked ready to argue, but the glare her father gave her made her sink. Shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, she collapsed both in attitude and stature. There was no point fighting. “And know that I am _exceptionally_ disappointed in you for being involved in this farce.”

Violet shot her friend a commiserative look as she submissively rose and slipped out of the room. On the way out, Amata glanced her direction with eyes full of sympathy and, behind her father’s back, mouthed _Talk later_.

“As for you two,” the Overseer said sharply, “to say you are a disappointment is to suggest I believed you capable of being anything else. I could hardly expect any better from either of you.”

“Like we care,” Butch sneered. Violet sat up straighter, trying to soak up some of his excess courage.

“Yeah,” she squeaked. Oh, she cared. She very much cared what authority figures thought of her, and she wished she could find out what she’d done to make the Overseer hate her, so she could at least try to make up for it. But she knew there was nothing she could do. She could spend the rest of her life trying to be useful and quiet and well behaved, but it would never be enough. Even if she spontaneously developed the magical power to grant his every wish with a twitch of her nose, he’d _still_ find a reason to despise her.

“At the very least,” he continued, as though they hadn’t spoken at all, “I can rest assured that two such obstinate malcontents deserve each other. I can think of no better punishment _or_ means of instruction. Eighteen months cooped up together? Oh, my, yes. That will teach you to butt heads!”

“You’re the butthead!”

Violet clapped her hands over her mouth to keep a giggle from escaping. Butch gave her a look that soon turned into a grin. She forced herself not to so much as smile in his direction. She would _not_ validate his childish behavior.

Despite the outburst, the Overseer remained collected. A slow smirk crept across his face, like a man with a brilliant, horrible idea. Oh, that couldn’t be good.

“As you both find each other _so very_ amusing, I believe I’ll institute a curfew for the happy couple so you might spend more time together. Consider it my wedding present to you.”

Violet’s heart, already beating much faster than seemed healthy, stopped dead, dropped from her ribcage down into the toes of her shoes and made itself at home. Or so it felt. “What?”

“Yes,” the Overseer said thoughtfully, “curfew. Say, seven o’clock? Effective immediately, until such time as I believe you’ve learned your lesson and can be trusted with more freedom. You’ll both be confined to quarters. Under guard, of course.”

“ _Together_?”

His voice turned sugary sweet. “Naturally. You can’t very well have a honeymoon apart, now can you?”

Violet flinched. Butch didn’t. She wondered if she was going to have to explain it to him.

The Overseer practically _beamed_ at her visible discomfort. Clearly, the implication that their impending marriage had been significantly shifted on his calendar had the desired effect on her, even if Butch remained oblivious. She wanted to tell him he couldn’t do it, but he could. She wanted to beg him not to, to give them more time, but he wouldn’t do that either.

“You’ll be given time to pack your belongings and move them to your shared rooms. I’ll even allow enough for a tearful farewell to your parents as you embark on your adult lives.” He ticked these items off on his fingers, as casually as a grocery list. “And of course, time to prepare for and carry out the wedding itself. Twenty-four hours should be sufficient.”

A day? A day.

“That mean you’re letting me out of here?” Butch asked, totally deadpan. Like the rest of it didn’t even bother him.

“For the time being,” the Overseer said with a nasty smile. “But the curfew is still in effect. You _will_ be in your mother’s rooms by seven.”

Oh, how perfect, Violet thought. It was already late afternoon. They’d get to be free for what, an hour? Two at most? After that, they’d be under lock and key for the rest of the night, safely married off by this time tomorrow, and herded right back into a locked room. And into that same locked room every night for the foreseeable future during non-working hours. They’d have no chance to sow dissension, cause trouble, or even seek recreation outside each other’s company.

Furthermore, he’d probably hold them up as an example of what would happen to couples who stepped out of line.

No wonder he looked so damned smug.

* * *

For the first hour of her Last Day of Freedom, Violet cried.

It wasn’t a wise use of time, it wasn’t mature or strong or an action she felt she could be proud of, but it was all she could think to do. When the Overseer released her from lockup, she went straight to her room, flung herself on the bed, and sobbed into her pillow until her nose was stuffed and she had no more tears to shed.

Then she got up, feeling puffy and overheated, with an ache all through her head. She couldn’t wallow in self-pity, and she couldn’t give in to fear. She went to the bathroom to wash her face.

Janice Wilkins walked in while she was examining herself in the mirror, trying to convince herself that she was composed enough to be seen in public. One look at her, and Violet burst into tears again.

“Oh. Uh.” Janice, not one for social interaction even when it wasn't of an unpleasant variety, looked around for some avenue of escape. And found it—one of the bathroom stalls. She sprinted for it, slammed the door and threw the latch. Violet couldn’t blame her for the desertion; they’d never really been friends.

She sniffed hard to clear her nose, not that it made any difference, and a few more strangled sobs trickled out of her mouth. God. She had to get a hold on herself. Violet stopped clutching the sink basin and turned the water back on. Whether it was for the sake of Janice’s privacy or her own, she couldn’t be sure, but the white noise made her feel a little better.

After a few deep breaths, Violet cupped her hands under the faucet, let them fill with water, and shoved her face in it. No more gentle splashing and rubbing; she’d forcibly drown her angst until she could think clearly. She did that a few more times, holding her breath as long as she could, until her face felt numb from cold and her fingers hurt.

Janice’s bathroom stall opened a heartbeat after she shut off the water. By then, she had herself together. Not enough to really meet the other girl’s eyes, but she could at least look at her chin without crashing headfirst into hysterics.

After an awkward moment of standing in the doorway to her stall, Janice crossed the room to a spot a few sinks down from where Violet stood. She turned the knob until the water started to flow—only a dribble—and soaped her hands.

They stood in silence for a what felt like interminably long time—Violet wiping the water from her face with a sleeve, her lathering her hands up—before Janice briefly glanced her way and mumbled, “Um. Hi.”

“Hi.” It came out more clipped than she meant it to, almost angry. Janice ducked her head, shoulders inching up toward her ears.

“Sorry.”

“Um.” It was the longest conversation they’d ever had. Janice was not a talker. And Violet had never had a reason to try to break through her shell.

“Um. Yeah.” Janice’s voice trailed off into a whisper, and she stopped to clear her throat. “Bad day?”

“The worst,” Violet answered. “You?”

“Also the worst.”

Violet frowned, trying to remember who Janice was paired with, but her mind was full of blaring alarms and neon signs flashing _BUTCH! BUTCH! BUTCH!_ Between that and Amata’s trouble, there wasn’t room for anything else.

“I’m sorry, who did you get?” she finally asked.

“Stevie.”

“Oh.” Violet felt a pang of sympathy. Being paired up with him was bad enough on its own; Stevie was just like Wally, only he’d had a few more years practice at being an asshole so he was better at it. _And_ he was security, which meant a free pass to do whatever he wanted. Now, because of her, he’d also be in a foul mood after getting the crap kicked out of him. “Sorry.”

Janice shrugged, or as near to it as her posture would allow. She’d hunched her shoulders up so much they hardly moved when she lifted them. A moment later, she rinsed the soap off her hands and turned off the water.

“Well,” Janice said, wiping her hands on her vault suit. “Uh. Bye? I guess?”

"Bye."

Violet turned back to her reflection; to the water gathered in her lashes, the crease between troubled brows, the slight flush of deep pink under her skin. She still felt all swollen while paradoxically wrung out, but at least she didn’t look... _quite_ as bad as she could have? She might even be able to convince someone she hadn't been crying. Provided they were at least a little unobservant and also _completely blind._ Oh, who was she kidding.

Staring at herself while Janice headed for the door, she firmed up her resolve. A month ago, Violet had known she was getting married someday. A week ago, she’d known it would be soon. Yesterday, she’d accepted it would happen before the week was through.

Today…

Well, today had altered her perception of what that marriage entailed, and an hour ago, the deadline was moved up by a few days. That was hard, yes. That was upsetting, _yes_. It was okay to want to fight and scream and cry and run away because of it. But she’d shifted her expectations before; she could do it again, even if it seemed impossible. Humans had been pairing off to mate since the beginning of time. It wouldn’t beat her, even if it felt insurmountable. She’d come out the other side alive. They all would. Nobody was going to die from a case of the Marrieds.

But she’d never be able to cope with it, she’d never be able to find something worth clinging to, if she didn’t at least try to move forward. Momentum— _purpose_ —was necessary, or she’d dissolve into a puddle of tears and stay that way for the rest of her life, letting things just _happen_ to her.

Violet wouldn’t think about tomorrow. That was several steps away. She’d just focus on the next thing. First, clean herself up: check. Next, pack her things. After that, the next thing, and the next.

She could do it, damn it. She _could_. She’d keep going, and keep fighting, and keep moving, until she found a way to be okay.

And once she made it, she’d help someone else get there too, if they wanted a hand. That was her job: spiritual comfort and support. But she wouldn’t be able help with anyone else's burden if she was utterly paralyzed by the weight of her own.

“Hey, Janice?”

Behind her, in view of the mirror, Janice paused in the bathroom doorway, awkwardly hovering on the threshold. “Yeah?”

“It’s going to be all right.”

Janice wet her lip and looked at her with obvious anxiety. “I hope so.”

* * *

Violet went back to her room, started to gather up the books that were most important to her, and only then realized that Butch still had her school bag. In a fit of frustration, she swept the stack of books off her desk and onto the floor.

Tantrum concluded, she picked them up again.

How was she supposed to pack? That was the only bag she had. She couldn’t very well go borrow Amata’s, not after the way the Overseer acted in the holding cell; she’d be walking in on the dressing down of the year, and just make it that much worse for her friend.

Maybe she shouldn’t take anything to the new room, anyway. If she brought her things in, did that make it hers? Did it make it _home_?

 _No._ She put a firm stop to that line of thinking and busied herself with straightening up the stack of books. Philosophical questions about the meaning of home, what made one and how she felt about it all could wait. If she didn’t take anything with her, she’d have nothing to do, and that was the end of it.

She went to her dresser and rummaged around inside. There had to be something she could use as a bag, right? But no, there was only more vault suits.

Violet shut the drawer, put her hands on her hips and looked around the room.

The blanket! That would do it. She grabbed it by the edge, pulled it off her bed and spread it out on the floor.

The neat stack of books tumbled into the center of the fabric and she tossed a few more on top. Next, a couple more vault suits, a few toiletries… Did she have anything else of importance? Anything she absolutely couldn’t live without? There was her old teddy bear Bo-Bo, missing half his stuffing and quite ragged from years of affection, but she’d never hear the end of it if she took him with her even if he did still mean something to her. A pink piggy bank, some more comic books…? No.

She looked back at her dresser, considered for a moment, and finally dropped to her knees to open the bottom drawer.

Socks clumsily bundled together, underwear. She threw some of them on the pile too and searched around until she found what she was looking for: a faded gray cardboard box, tied with ribbon, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand.

Inside, wrapped in a piece of tissue paper, was the only thing her mother had left behind specifically for her. The necklace wouldn’t have been anything special in the pre-war world; it wasn’t diamonds or anything like that. It was costume jewelry—a small oval pendant made of fragile purple glass, with flora engraved on it. She didn’t know what variety, even though she'd looked in all the books she could find to try and identify it. Her father said the pendant was called an ‘intaglio,’ a cameo like some of her romance novel heroines wore, but carved in reverse.

The chain had tarnished long ago, and the clasp had rusted shut, but the glass was intact. She briefly hugged the box to her chest. Her mom wasn’t here to guide her into marriage and motherhood, but maybe she’d be there in spirit.

After gathering up everything else she’d packed, Violet carefully laid the box on top and drew the corners of the blanket together to tie it. The makeshift sack was small enough to sling over her back and carry when she moved out tomorrow. She’d have to sleep in her clothes to stay warm enough tonight, if she even slept, but she’d make do.

With that done, she sat back on her heels and breathed deeply. Without the distraction of packing, her brain immediately tried to race off to think about tomorrow, but she shook herself and steered it back where she wanted. What came next? The same thing that came every night. Have dinner. Take a shower. Talk with her father. Go to bed. Get up. Have breakfast. Get dressed. Get...

Violet dug her nails into her palms and forced herself not to think that far ahead. She couldn’t afford to shut down because she felt overwhelmed.

Maybe she couldn’t handle it all at once, but damn it, she could do it one thing at a time.

* * *

Morning came too soon. Or not soon enough. All night she tossed and turned, vacillating between the two, unable to decide if she dreaded it or couldn’t wait to get it over with. Violet finally gave up on sleep, picked up a book she hadn’t reread in awhile, and read it cover to cover.

By chapter two she remembered why she'd left it to gather dust: it was god awful. But at least it was distracting. Especially once she dug around for a pen and started correcting its endless grammatical errors.

Feeling drained and jumpy from another night of sleep deprivation, she went to the dining table after her alarm rang and sat down to a bowl of cereal. Her father was gone already, something she was glad of. She’d broken down in front of him the night before, even though she did her best to avoid it, and it’d been painfully cringeworthy even as he tried to pat her back and comfort her. Neither of them were very good at _feelings._ Violet knew she couldn’t pull herself into anything resembling human if he were there.

She forced herself to eat though she had no appetite, spoonful by spoonful, focusing on nothing but getting to the bottom of the bowl.

When a knock at the door startled her, she dropped her spoon.

Already?

The lump in her throat wouldn’t go down no matter how hard she swallowed. Somehow, she managed to get her feet under her, and went to the door. She took a breath so deep her lungs hurt, and opened it.

“Violet honey, hi!” Ellen DeLoria, with her fist raised to knock again, wobbled. Not even nine o’clock and already she’d been drinking enough to get tipsy? Or was this her in the process of sobering up?

“Hi, M—um, uh—” She still didn’t know if she should say Mrs. or Miss or Ms. DeLoria, or the awkward informality of Ellen, or, god forbid, welcome her as a mother-in-law and call her Mom. “Morning—good morning—how are you?” she blathered, trying to force a smile and feeling the residue of last night’s tears when she blinked.

“Oh, honey,” Butch’s mom said, gently, and with a clarity Violet had rarely heard from her. “Honey, it’s all right.”

“It is?”

“Every bride is nervous on her wedding day. I should know, I’ve been a bridesmaid twenty times! And you’re so young, and you must feel so not-ready, oh, _honey_.” She pulled Violet into a hug. Violet stiffened, unused to being enveloped in a near-stranger’s vodka-scented embrace.

In the arms of someone whose balance was precarious to begin with, going stiff was the wrong thing to do. They started to tilt. Violet pulled away quick before they could topple.

“Oh, silly me!” Butch's mom chortled, righting herself with only a tiny stumble. Her hands found Violet’s and she gave them a squeeze. “I’ve come to help you get ready.”

“You...have?” If she was going to help anyone get ready, shouldn’t it be Butch?

“Oh, I’m sure Amata and—uh, your other friends?—your bridesmaids, I’m sure they’ll take good care of you, but there are certain things that...well. You might want another woman’s...more mature perspective.”

Oh. God. No. She was _not_ about to get the birds and the bees talk from _Butch DeLoria’s mother_.

“It’s okay! You don’t have to tell me anything! I swear!” Without realizing, she staggered back into the door frame. Even if Violet didn’t already know the mechanics involved, she wouldn’t have asked her future mother-in-law to provide the details! “Really, it’s fine. I promise.”

“Violet honey, I’m sure your father explained it all to you the best he could, but let’s be honest, he _isn’t_ a woman. Men don’t always think of the things—”

“It’s really not necessary!” Violet interrupted, resisting the urge to clamp her hands over her ears and just start shouting nonsense as loud as she could.

“Oh! I’m sorry, have you already—” She laughed again, a thin, nervous sound that made Violet want to scream. “I’m being awfully old-fashioned right now, aren’t I? I should have realized you two kids were—”

“ _No_!” Violet winced at her own shout, and tried to compose herself. “No. I just...we had health class.”

“Ooh. Health class, I see.” Butch’s mom gave her a knowing look that made her want to melt through the floor, and then she clumsily _winked_. Oh good god, she definitely thought they were already sleeping together. Violet was going to _die_. “Well, in that case, we’ll just move on. What were you thinking of doing with your hair?”

“My hair?” Her hair was cropped so short, there was nothing she _could_ do with it. Which Butch’s mom seemed to realize the moment she looked at it and faltered, puzzling out the logic of it in her state of mild intoxication.

“Oh.” Ellen DeLoria looked a bit lost, and for the first time in a long time, Violet felt self conscious of the half inch of curls that coiled tight to her scalp. But after a moment she brightened and squeezed her hands again. “That’s all right. It’s lovely just the way it is. How about a ribbon?”

From somewhere, she produced a strip of pale blue satin, wider than Violet’s thumb. That was kind of nice, even if this entire exchange was terribly awkward, and she accepted it with grace. “Thank you.”

“There you are! Something borrowed and something blue. Wait, wait—“ Butch’s mom swayed a little and unzipped her vault suit—far enough that Violet felt the compulsion to look elsewhere—and fished out something metal that flashed in the corridor lighting. “Here.”

After zipping her suit back up, she dropped the object in Violet’s outstretched hand: a plain silver band.

“A wedding ring?” Violet tried to hand it back. This wasn’t even going to be a real marriage. She couldn’t accept what had to be an heirloom, not for a sham. “I can’t take this.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” Ellen put her hand over Violet’s and forced her fingers closed over the ring. “I’ve had it for years and years, but it’s never been used. It was supposed to be mine, but I never married. Technically it’s something old _and_ something new. Isn’t that clever?”

“Why?” Violet shook her head a little. “I mean, why are you doing this?”

She patted the back of Violet’s hand, and touched her chin so that she would look up. “Because you’re going to marry my Butchie, that’s why. But even if that wasn’t true, every girl needs a mother on her wedding day. Even if she’s a borrowed one.”

“Thank you,” Violet repeated, more quietly than the last time. There was a wrongness to the scene, and a wrongness to the fact she felt touched by the gesture.

Ellen smiled and let her go. “Now, I have to go make sure Butchie’s presentable!”

Violet watched her swerve down the corridor, and looked down at the ring in her hand.

Boy, she hoped Butch wasn’t about to get the sex talk. Or, she thought with a barely suppressed shudder about how much _worse_ an uninformed Butch would be, maybe she did.

* * *

By lunchtime, the “wedding” was in progress. It looked nothing like the movies, it felt nothing like a romance novel, and no one objected by swinging down from a chandelier like what usually happened in the comics.

If not for the slow-churning pit of terror in her stomach, Violet would have said it was thoroughly boring. No fanfare, no wedding dress, no cake, not even any bridesmaids or groomsmen. Just her, Butch, the Overseer and their parents, packed into the Overseer’s office.

At least there was the entertainment she got from seeing what Butch’s mom thought made him look “presentable.” She’d slicked his hair down, plastered against his scalp, and parted it straight down the middle. He looked more pissed off about that than being forced to say “I do.”

They exchanged rings the way they were supposed to—or made a token effort, anyway. Violet had no ring to give him, so the Overseer made her mime putting one on, and the one Butch’s mom had given her was too big. After three attempts at getting it to stay on her finger, Butch gave up and shoved it on her thumb.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

They tried. They really did. They both puckered and squeezed their eyes shut, but after struggling to meet in the middle like two magnets repelling each other, they came within two inches and recoiled.

“Ew,” she groaned, at the same time that Butch whined, “Do I have to?”

They looked at each other, and she was almost tempted to laugh. He looked as put off by the whole thing as she felt.

“Pipsqueak.” He punched her in the shoulder.

“Jerkface.” She punched him back.

And then they were married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is nearly complete and (fingers crossed!) should be posted by the end of the week! We've finally reached the awkward copulation stage! **_dun Dun DUN_**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *lights flash, sirens blare* SEX AHEAD. THIS IS NOT A TEST.
> 
> Lots of warnings for this (HUGE) chapter. As always, the emphasis is on friendship/coping/humor, but even so, please be safe. The advisories are as follows:
> 
> Brief mentions of abortion, miscarriage and the Overseer’s sexist/transphobic views about what makes an acceptable woman; religious references, brief allusions to pre-war racism and antisemitism, brief allusions to rape, internalized homophobia, slut shaming, and terrible, horrible, awkward, uncomfortable, **extremely unpleasant sex.**

The strangest thing about it, Violet decided in the immediate hours after, was how nothing felt changed. The Overseer shooed them out of his office, told them to go back about their daily duties and then they just... _did._

She worked in the clinic, like always, filing reports and restocking supplies. Aside from the ring on her hand, it seemed easy enough to forget that she was a married woman.

Or else she was in shock. It was probably that.

The oversized ring and the ribbon in her hair made her feel like a child playing dress-up, so she took them both off. After some thought, she threaded the ribbon through the ring and tied it around her neck for safekeeping. It was...sweet of Butch’s mom to give it to her, even if she would have preferred her own mother’s ring. But she didn’t even know if her dad still had it or if it had been incinerated with her body.

Ellen—it was becoming easier to think of her as an Ellen—was trying to make this feel normal, and somehow that made things even more surreal.

As seven o’clock approached, Violet sat at the kitchen table in what had been her home for eighteen years, and now was only her father’s apartment, kicking at the legs of her chair and wishing that she could have at least seen Amata. The Overseer had kept her in her room, ostensibly as punishment for the incident with the Mack brothers. Violet couldn’t help but be aware that it also conveniently deprived _her_ of the one person she would have wanted for a bridesmaid. But what did she need with emotional support, right?

Her father hadn’t exactly avoided her on purpose all day, but they’d managed to steer clear of each other all the same. In the clinic, she worked with Jonas, but they didn’t trade many words either. He halfheartedly congratulated her, she replied with a subdued thanks, then he casually handed her a scalpel, told her he wouldn’t notice if it went missing and helpfully pointed out the femoral artery “just in case.”

(Well, if she _needed_ to murder Butch on their wedding night, she had the means, at least.)

Now, after a day apart, her dad sat across from her, sipping his tea.

“I...want you to know that I’m very proud of you,” he said awkwardly. Then he shook his head. “No. I _am_ very proud of you, but what I want you to know is that if this is an unbearable situation for you, I will support your choices.”

“Dad?”

“I hope you can make it work, sweetheart. I hope you can learn to be happy together. Or at least kind to each other. But—well, I’ll always be your father, you know, and—I don’t intend to turn your old bedroom into an office any time soon, that’s all.”

“Dad, are you talking about rebelling?” She didn’t say it seriously, because she didn’t think _he_ could be serious. Her rule-abiding father would never suggest that she disobey the Overseer’s orders.

“Never that,” he said, too sharp for any of it to be a joke. “But there’s no good reason you should have to live with this boy, if you find you can’t.”

He didn’t say she shouldn't have to sleep with him. He didn’t say she shouldn’t have to bear a child. He didn’t even say that she didn’t have to make a try at cohabitation, the fake marriage, the civilized pretense that life was normal and everyone was happy.

“Okay,” she said. There was no life in her voice. As much as she appreciated the offer of a place to come back to, she knew it wouldn’t be an option until after the damage was done. It wouldn't do much good to move back in with her father once she was pregnant.

“If it ever gets to be too much for you,” he reached across the table to put his hand over hers, “I’d be willing to help out. Have to get that ‘World’s Greatest Grandpa’ mug somehow.”

He leaned toward her and indicated the cup at his elbow: a relic from second grade with _World’s Greatest Dad_ on it in her own childish handwriting. All she could think about a cup of her own, in some other seven-year-old's sloppy penmanship. But it wouldn't be just one, would it? Her child wouldn't be an only child. She visualized one cup multiplied into a heap of two dozen. It made her stomach clench.

“I know I’ll have to add the ‘+ Grandpa’ myself," he said confidentially, and winked, "but I feel I really need to _earn_ it.”

“Thanks.” Violet gave him a smile as thin as weak coffee, and not because of the reminder of her impending motherhood. It was a nice thought, and it might have been comforting under other circumstances, but it didn’t feel realistic. It’s not like he’d have time to take on child care responsibilities, even if he wanted to. She’d grown up with a mostly absent father, grown used to the constant interruptions and calls that took him away in the middle of the night. There was no reason to believe that wouldn’t continue when he became a grandfather.

“Violet, I would do anything in the world for you. I _have_ —” He snapped his mouth shut, avoiding her eyes, and she wondered what he had been about to touch on that she wasn’t supposed to know. Something about her mom, probably. That was what usually shut him down. “I know I haven’t always been the most attentive father, but I give you my word I’ll be there for you when you become a parent.”

She turned her hand over and squeezed his, just in time for him to murmur, “I’ll also be there...if you don’t. No matter the circumstances.”

Stunned, Violet stared at him. Something passed between them in the stretch of silence, an unspoken understanding that made her heart pound and her mouth go dry. There was more to it than the implication he’d still love her if she miscarried or couldn’t conceive. More than the assurance he wouldn’t hate her for what the Overseer would consider failing as a woman. He was saying he’d support her if she sabotaged the pregnancy. Cover for her. Maybe even help her abort it.

Without warning, fresh tears sprang to her eyes. She didn’t think she had any left, but there they were, prickling and burning even as she tried to blink them away. The Overseer would catch her somehow if she tried anything, punish her, and most certainly punish her father. Cruelly, publicly, endlessly.

But the mere idea, the vaguest hope, and the fact that her dad wouldn’t judge her if she did make that call, made her feel lighter inside. _She had options_. Their cost would be high, higher than seemed worth the risk given the Overseer’s vengeful nature, but _options_.

“Thank you,” she repeated, sincerely. She didn’t dare say more than that. Even if the Overseer didn’t have ears everywhere, and she didn’t think he did, it was better to not make a habit of being open about something he'd consider treasonous.

“And if any of your friends should come to you with a problem," her father hedged, "in your capacity as chaplain, I mean…”

It took Violet a second to grasp what he was saying, but he waited for her to catch his drift. She wasn’t the only one he’d be willing to help. Though he refused to _say_ he would support rebellion, offering to secretly undermine the Overseer’s plans came to the same result. Now the conversation was _definitely_ edging toward treason. “Dad, are you—“

Her father opened his mouth to speak. Usually, this was when the intercom would buzz, summoning him to deal with the inevitable medical emergency, because there was no such thing as an uninterrupted conversation in their family.

This time, her Pip-Boy beeped its incessantly cheery alarm. Ten minutes to seven. It was time for her to go.

* * *

Officer Gomez was kind but firm when he felt the scalpel up her sleeve.

“Young lady, you know I can't let you keep that.”

She could have fought him on it. Any other member of the security team and she probably would have, but Gomez had always done right by her. She rolled back her sleeve and let him take it.

“I wasn't going to use it.” Not unless she had to.

“Of course you weren't. Do I need to pat you down?”

“No, sir.” She had nothing else. The sedatives she'd tried to grab were too bulky.

“All right, then.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze and ushered her into the room. Her new room. The her-and-Butch room.

He wasn't there yet, thank god. If she had time to get used to the room without him in it, she might not end up having a _total_ nervous breakdown before the night was out.

The door closed. She was sealed in. She tried it just to be sure, but yeah, the door was locked from the outside.

Okay. Okay. She was fine. She wasn't panicking. She could handle this.

What was in the room? A bed. A tiny little bed. Cozy enough for two people if they actually liked each other, but her and Butch? No, don't think about it. What else?

Sheets on the bed. A blanket. Pillows. All standard. A chair pushed into the corner. A dresser on one wall. Nothing on top. Nothing in the drawers. Yet. She’d already brought her things into the room in her makeshift sack, but it lay shoved in a corner, lopsided and sad. Even so, there was nothing in it of any use for—whatever she had to do.

She sat in the chair. It wasn't too comfortable, but at least it wasn't the bed.

Violet didn't have long to wait. Before long, the door opened to reveal Stevie Mack holding Butch by the arm. Butch was in just his vault suit again, the leather jacket dangling from Stevie's free hand, and he was putting up the fight she had only thought about. A bruise was darkening under his left eye, and his lip was split. It wasn't doing him any good , though. Stevie shoved him in and shut the door.

Butch staggered forward and had to pinwheel his arms to keep his balance. He didn't even seem to notice she was there—he spun around and pounded on the door.

“Hey! Gimme back my jacket, asshole!”

“You can have it back when she's pregnant,” Stevie yelled back through the door.

“Jerk!” He kicked the door, then turned around to lean against it, hands going for his pockets. Except he didn't _have_ any pockets, so he ended up tugging at his vault suit and sighing in frustration. “They took my switchblade.” It took her a second to realize he was talking to her.

“Mine, too,” she said. His eyes went wide.

“You were gonna _stab_ me?”

“M-maybe.” She took a deep breath and tried to sound tough. “Any part of you that touches me, you're not getting back.”

“Good thing I don't want to touch you then!” He crossed the room to throw himself across the bed, choosing a path that kept plenty of distance between the two of them.

“I mean it, Butch. This isn't happening. I'm not doing it.”

“Good. I wouldn't do it with you if you paid me.” He reached again for the spot where his pocket should have been, and caught himself with a groan. “Aw, man, Stevie has my cigarettes. What an asshole.”

“Well, that's one thing we can agree on,” she said with an agitated giggle. “Stevie Mack is an asshole.”

“Eh, I'll get another pack from Wally tomorrow.” He kicked off his boots and crawled under the covers. “Good night, loser.”

“You're going to sleep?” At seven o’clock?

“Uh, yeah? I'm tired.” He pulled the blanket up over his head to block out the light. Before long, he was snoring.

Unbelievable. There she was all tied up in knots, and he passed out like it was no big deal that she was there. She wished she had a pen so she could draw a mustache on him.

But she didn't, so she got up and turned off the light. And she spent her wedding night—her _first_ wedding night—curled up in a chair, glaring at the back of Butch’s head.

* * *

She hadn't expected to sleep, but she must have dozed off at some point, because she came to with Butch shaking her by the shoulder.

“Hey, get up.”

“What?” she said blearily.

“Get in the bed.”

“ _What_?” She slapped his hand away.

“Come on, I can't get back to sleep with you making that weird noise.” He hauled her up and pushed her toward the bed.

“What noise?” She didn't make weird noises in her sleep. Did she?

Butch ignored her. She watched him for a moment as he dropped into the chair, his face lit by his Pip-Boy's faint green glow. She heard a game starting up, but he had the volume turned down too far for her to make out what it was.

He could have kept the bed, even if he wasn't sleeping in it. But she was too exhausted to question the trade. She fell into the warm spot he'd left in the blankets, and almost instantly dropped back into sleep.

* * *

 

The next time she woke up, it was morning, and Butch lay sprawled out in the chair, snoring like a broken fan belt.

So _she_ made a weird noise, did she? Humph.

Violet checked her Pip-Boy’s clock. Almost six AM. That was a bit earlier than she usually started the day, but between curfew, the stress of being boxed in, and her lousy night’s sleep, she already felt restless. She’d take this opportunity to get a head start on her daily duties.

Or at least, she thought she would. The apartment door didn’t open when she hit the button, and no one answered when she tried the intercom. Great. Whoever had drawn guard duty was slacking off, and had left them unattended— _confined_ and unattended.

Fidgety, Violet bounced from foot to foot. For now, being locked in was an inconvenience, but she hadn’t been to the bathroom in hours. Pretty soon it would be a lot more than that. She tried the door again. First the button, then the intercom, then she finally broke down and started knocking. Even after she beat her fist on it hard enough to hurt, there was still no response. Well, what was she supposed to do now?

“Mmmph.” Butch stirred in his chair, awakened by the racket she was making. After the initial alarm, he melted back into the cushions like a pat of butter. A sleepy, moaning pat of butter. "Wah?"

“Go back to sleep,” she said, not meaning to be harsh, but unable to keep the frustration out of her voice. If she pressed her knees together tight enough, could she squeeze the contents of her bladder back into the intestines?

“Mmmmsleep.” He yawned. “What’s the big emergency? Why’re you dancing?”

“I’m not dancing!” It was more of a waddle-toe-tap thing, and she was only doing it because she was getting antsy. And, okay, maybe a little bit because she had to pee. Lying in bed, she hadn’t realized how much, but now being vertical, gravity was working its magic. But she could put it off for at least another fifteen minutes. Twenty, even. “Just go back to sleep.”

“Can’t,” he said and stretched his arms out above his head until she heard one of his shoulders pop, “’M awake now.”

“Yeah, well, it is morning.” Avoiding an apology, she banged on the door again. Should she feel bad for waking him up? She didn’t. There was no room for guilt when she was this full of pee.

Butch got out of the chair, still yawning, and shuffled over to her.

“Nobody out there?”

“If there is, they aren’t listening.”

“Huh. Okay. Got a bobby pin?” he asked.

“Seriously?” She ran a hand over her half-inch of hair, to remind him that she had no use for such a thing. The two she had broken off in the lock the other day had been Amata’s, left in her room the last time she’d slept over. Which was probably never going to happen again. “Oh, wait—are you going to pick the lock?”

“Yeah. What do you think, I want to stay in here with you all day?” He watched her bounce up and down for a while. “So do you have to pee or something?”

“That’s an awfully personal question!” Of course she had to pee, and of course he could tell, but she didn’t want to _talk_ to him about it.

“Okay, you don’t have to pee. So I’m sure you won’t mind if I do this...” He reached out, one finger extended to poke her in the side. She slapped his hand away.

“Stop!”

“Why? It’s not like it’s gonna make you pee your pants.” He reached out again, and again she slapped him down.

“ _Stop_ it, Butch!” Poke, slap, poke, slap. Boy, married life was shaping up to be a lot like kindergarten. “So help me, if you don’t stop right now I’ll—“

“What, pee on me?”

“If I do, you’ll deserve it!”

His finger came at her again, so she punched him in the arm. He laughed.

“Ha, you’re really bad at that.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll have plenty of time to practice my technique.”

He put his hands up, palms toward her, in what looked like a gesture of surrender. “Come on, try it again.”

He wanted her to hit his hands? Weird.

“What are you doing, Butch?”

“Distracting you.” He laughed. “Maybe distracting myself. You think you’re the only one who has to pee first thing in the morning?”

That hadn’t occurred to her. If Butch was at all uncomfortable, he wasn’t showing it. Maybe he was just too cool to do the pee-pee dance.

“C’mon, twerp. Keep me busy, or else I’ll start poking you again.”

“Ugh, fine.” She swung at his palm just to humor him, not really caring how well it worked out.

Which was not very well. He didn’t even flinch.

“Don’t throw your elbows out like that. I can see you coming a mile away.”

“Like you’d even know what a mile looks like.” She tried again, keeping her elbow close to her side instead of letting it swing out away from her body. It hurt her arm, and she still had to pee. “I wouldn’t think you’d _want_ me to be any good at this.”

“You might need it sometime. I mean, look at you. Besides, you’ll never be any fun if you keep fighting like a girl.”

“You—you’re such a jerk!” She punched again, and hurt her wrist. Butch laughed.

“You and all your fancy words, and all you can think to call me is ‘jerk’?”

“Fine—you’re a dickwad!” She hit him again. This time she didn’t lock her elbow or wrist, and avoided hurting herself, but she still didn’t get much power behind the blow. He found it hilarious, of course.

“Ooh, rebel girl, you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No,” she reminded him. “She’s dead.”

“Oh, shit. Um—I meant—Do you kiss...Amata with that mouth? Yeah, I totally said Amata, not...the other thing.” He sighed. “That was dumb.”

“Yeah, well, _you’re_ dumb.” She punched his hand again. This still wasn’t helping her not have to pee. “But it’s no big deal.”

“Here, move your foot back.” He nudged her with his toe until she moved where he wanted, facing him from an almost sideways position. “There, you’re less of a target that way. And get your hands up, unless you want to get punched in the head.”

“You’d better not punch me in the head, or...” Well, it was obvious she couldn’t threaten him physically. “I’ll think of some _very_ hurtful words.”

“Will most of them be ‘jerk’?” He dodged when once of her blows glanced off his palm and breezed past his ear.

“Asshole.”

“Better!” He grinned.

“The punch or the insult?”

“The insult. You still can’t punch for shit. Come on, put your body into it, don’t just use your arm.”

Violet wasn’t really sure what that meant. Her body didn’t feel connected to her arm the way he thought it was, the way his probably was. Her strength felt lower down, in the abdomen and hips rather than in the shoulders and back. Maybe she could work that into it somehow? So she tried. She focused more on her shoulder blade than her bicep, the way it rotated and stretched the muscles, the way she could feel it connected to all the other structures from neck to lower back, then really pivoted back on one leg and pistoned her arm at him.

The blow connected. And _knocked him off balance_. He crashed into the door sideways, eyes wide with shock.

“Oh my god!” Her hands flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry!”

“Hey, don’t be sorry when you do something right.” He leaned against the door, smiling at her. Practically beaming. “Might make a Tunnel Snake outta you yet.” He laughed. “I mean, you did a pretty good job on Wally, anyway. At least you’re a fast learner.”

Violet would never join the Tunnel Snakes, not even if Butch genuinely asked her, which she didn’t believe for a minute he was going to do. And even if he did, _Wally_ wouldn’t stand for it.

Before she could say so, the door opened. Butch fell backward, fortunately straight into the arms of the security officer who looked as surprised as he did.

They had Officer Park this morning. Violet didn’t know him well, but apparently Butch did. He went limp, forcing the officer to keep holding on to him, to prevent him from crashing to the floor. Most people probably would have let him fall.

“Good morning, Dick!” Butch said, sugary-sweet, the same way he used to use to needle Mr. Brotch in class. Violet was momentarily shocked, until she remembered that Park’s first name was Richard. She stifled a laugh.

“That’s Officer Park,” the man said flatly. “Stand up, DeLoria.”

“Can’t. I’ve been brutally attacked. You wouldn’t _believe_ how violent this nerd is.”

“I did just punch him a bunch of times,” Violet agreed. “It’s probably not safe to keep us in an enclosed space together. Someone might get hurt. Well, see you later!” She waved to Butch, then took off for the bathroom at a brisk walk. He could have fun bothering security if he wanted, but she wasn’t sticking around. She was about to pop.

Behind her, she heard Officer Park sigh, followed by the _thump_ of Butch hitting the floor.

“Ow!”

She couldn’t help it. She grinned all the way to the bathroom.

* * *

The morning dragged by, and limped all the way to lunchtime.

The clinic should have kept her busy—busy enough to make the hours move faster than a brisk crawl. It didn’t. In her disconnected haze of shock and denial in the hours after the wedding, Violet had done so much there wasn’t anything really left to bother with today.

So she checked and rechecked the inventory, filed and refiled the charts, just to make sure she hadn’t screwed up somewhere. She found nothing. It was almost funny. She was a more efficient worker in a fugue state than she was the rest of the time.

At noon, she stepped out to the diner for a cup of coffee and a cucumber sandwich. The hydroponic garden had an unusually large yield of them this harvest, and she meant to make the most of it. Andy was a bit liberal with the Non-Dairy Kream-Cheez when she asked for some, but it hit the spot.

At twelve-thirty, she thought to drop in on Amata, but the Overseer would have none of it, because of course he wouldn’t. And with her duties in the clinic complete, she was left to find a way to fill the rest of the afternoon.

That was how, at a quarter to one, she found herself in the chaplain’s office. _Her_ office.

Violet had always spent the majority of her working hours in the clinic with her dad. Anyone who needed her knew where to find her, and her assistance freed up Jonas to do more work in the lab, and fill in at his old job when they needed an extra hand. But she did have an office, too, and she kept regular hours from two to four o’clock every day just in case anyone was in need of religious counseling in private.

So far, no one ever had. She had spent the last two years reading the books her predecessors had left on the shelves: the Bible, _Astrology for Beginners_ (which was utterly useless without a sky. Why did they even have it?), _The Art of War_ (not even about religion, unless she was missing some cultural context that people from the old world would have understood), and a picture book called _The Rabbi and the Twenty-Nine Witches_ , which was quite frightening and made her intensely grateful to live in a vault and not _out there,_ with monsters and _moons_ and lethal water falling from the sky.

Aside from those, somewhere in her desk there was an old book inventory from right after the war. It listed many other titles, but they were either lost or had been removed by parties unknown over the intervening decades. Violet hoped they’d been lost, and not secretly banned by the first Overseer; it was too painful to contemplate being denied new books for nebulous reasons that probably died with the old world. What was the _Tao Te Ching_? The _Torah_? Unless she found them hidden in a box somewhere, she’d probably never know.

None of what she _did_ have really gave her the slightest idea what she was supposed to be doing with her life. She’d tried to read the Bible, really she had, but so much of it was symbolic and abstract with terminology that relied on a frame of reference she simply didn’t have.

How big was a whale? Could one _really_ eat a man whole and keep him alive in its belly? How horrifying. How much was a mustard seed’s worth of faith? What was spinning? Why did it matter that lilies of the field didn’t do it? All she knew about the term was that it had something to do with wheels and murdering princesses—which just raised more questions. Were they crushed to paste under them? And, again, _what did that have to do with flowers_?

Just when she felt she was getting a handle on that Jesus Christ guy and what he stood for, he had to throw in something about fig trees, or lukewarm water. Or was that John the Revelator who said that? And was John the Revelator the same guy as John the Baptist? Did he come back from a beheading the way Jesus came back from crucifixion? What even _was_ crucifixion? It was all very confusing.

At least the pulps and detective novels she’d read didn’t leave her head spinning. They adhered to physical laws she understood, mostly avoided metaphor and used imagery and plots that didn’t require complete familiarity with the world above. A man got stabbed with a knife, or poisoned, because of greed or lust or hate; she understood what that meant. The stories took place in tombs of steel and glass called cities, where resources were scarce and people were virtually strangers in spite of jostling up against each other; she understood that, too.

Maybe someday she’d be able to make sense of the religious texts at her disposal. For now, all she really understood was the gory bits. And she was pretty sure that wasn’t what she was supposed to preach about. She grasped some of the “be nice” stuff, too, but she couldn’t exactly make decades worth of sermons out of “don’t be a dick.”

So, because she didn’t have much else to do, she had started typing up the idea of religion she had gotten from what little her father had told her about her mother. Catherine, she knew, had been devout. It was nothing but a lot of confused ramblings so far, but she hoped it might someday be useful to someone.

She was working on that when a knock came at the door and Christine Kendall slunk into the room, scowling.

“Christine, what an—unexpected surprise. Are you okay?” Was she about to get murdered? She and Christine were definitely not friends, but they had never done anything _too_ awful to each other. She couldn’t imagine why she should look so angry.

“I don’t like you,” Christine said bluntly.

“Okay… Did you come here to tell me that?”

“No...” Christine sighed and sank down in the empty chair on the other side of the desk. “You’re not a gossip. So that’s good. And—if I tell you things, you _have_ to keep them to yourself, right? That’s how confession works?”

“I don’t do confession. I’m not a priest.” Seeing Christine’s face fall, she quickly added, “I'm not a gossip, though, you’re right. If there’s anything you need to talk about, I can promise I’ll keep it to myself.”

“Okay...well...I mean, I usually talk to Susie about everything, but I can’t talk to her about this. She’s actually _excited,_ and I—I’m really freaking out right now.”

“About the marriages?” Violet guessed. Christine cringed. She tried to sound comforting, “You don’t have to be ashamed—“

The attempt at reassurance backfired. Christine looked stricken. “You _know_?”

Well, yes. It seemed obvious. Forced marriage and what followed it was the terrible thing looming in all their futures, and even if she was paired with someone she liked, having no choice in the matter would be enough to send anyone through an emotional crisis. But Christine shouldn’t be surprised that she understood that.

“Is there...more than just the marriage?” she asked carefully. “Jim hasn’t done anything to make you feel unsafe?” She didn’t think Jim was the kind of person who would—well, act like Wally, but then, she hadn't thought _Wally_ would act the way he had, either. And Jim was out of her social circle besides. She couldn’t say for sure.

“No, no, he’s been very nice. It’s just that...I don’t know how long ‘nice’ is going to last. And I just don’t think I can do it...” She took a sudden interest in the display of her Pip-Boy. “...with a guy.”

Oh. _Oh_. Violet fell back in her chair, heavily. “You don’t like men.”

Well, that rocked the foundations of everything she knew about Christine Kendall. She was the class slut, or so she’d thought. She had seen tales of her exploits scrawled across the walls for years.

Written...by the boys, Violet realized. And they had nothing to gain from admitting that she _wouldn’t_ put out for them, especially after the first rumors started. That had been what, when they were all about twelve? Thirteen? The first whispers of Wally Mack saying she’d snuck off and kissed Paul at his birthday party. Paul going along with the narrative. Later that same year, Butch said she’d flashed him. And as the months and years wore on, the stories gradually escalated in salaciousness until Christine was gagging for it anytime, anywhere, with any _one_.

Those wretched little creeps. They’d just made things up. She shouldn’t be surprised. To make matters worse, just because she wasn’t close friends with Christine, just because she and Susie were mean to her in school, Violet had believed them.

Christine looked up, spots of color flashing across her cheeks. She mistook the reason for Violet’s surprise.

“If you’re about to tell me it’s my duty is to make more little vault dwellers, and being this way is falling down on the job, you can save it. I already know.” Her eyes slid away from Violet’s face. “I’ve tried to not be different, but I can’t.”

“Don’t worry. I’m...not really in any position to judge on that count,” Violet confided.

“You— _you_?” Christine looked back up at her. “You like...?”

“I like both. But yeah, I think I prefer girls.” It felt strange to say it out loud, but it wasn’t a bad kind of strange. Her father had guessed, and Amata had coaxed it out of her—and of course, the less said about Amata’s father, the better—but she had never just come out and told anyone before. It usually didn’t pay to be too open about personal things, living in a vault.

Christine looked far away, like her whole world had been a lie, and whispered, “I thought I was the only one. I thought I was just broken.”

“You’re not the only one. And I don’t _think_ we’re broken.” Violet wanted to reach across the desk and offer her hand, but it felt too intrusive. They shared the intimacy of a secret now, but there were still years of distance between them. “Does anyone know?”

“No one. Not a soul. I just—” Christine gestured helplessly. “Even when we were little, Susie was always talking about boys and getting married and playing house and I thought, I dunno, that I’d grow into it or something? That I’d stop thinking about playing house with Susie and suddenly start thinking about Freddie Gomez or someone like that. That I was a late bloomer, you know? But I never did. I didn’t tell anyone because I kept hoping it’d happen, and now I’m supposed to get married, and I _can’t_.”

Oh, god. Poor Christine. She didn’t even have the luxury of Violet’s books to let her know it was okay, to reassure her that she wasn’t stranded in a category of one. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t even care about the having babies part,” Christine went on, voice cracking, “but actually _making_ the babies? And not just with one guy, but all of them? What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to...”

Violet had no good answer. She was hardly an expert on human psychology, but forcing Christine to go against her nature couldn’t be emotionally healthy—especially not repeatedly, under duress, and with no hope of respite. That was how psyches broke. Violet’s own future felt impossibly difficult, and she didn’t even mind men, especially. For Christine, it’d be so much worse.

“I don’t know.” Violet opened the top drawer of her desk to retrieve a handkerchief, and offered it. Christine took it hesitantly. She wasn’t crying yet, but the tears might spill over soon. Violet wasn’t the only one whose emotions were volatile at the moment.

“Thanks,” she said, making a token swipe at her nose. “God, I only came here because I was desperate. I didn’t think you’d _understand_.”

“Have you tried talking to Jim? _He_ might be more understanding than you think. Maybe you could work something out.”

“Fat lot of good that would do me with the next guy, even if we did. And, besides...” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I have to _try_ to have kids. I have to. This isn’t for fun, it’s our duty. Right? And maybe—maybe— _maybe_ it won’t even be that bad.”

Yeah, sure. Not that bad. Just some run-of-the-mill torture, sure to leave scars, refreshing itself every night. For years, for decades, until the Overseer freed her or she came apart at the seams, whichever came first. She was trying to be brave, trying to talk herself into it in a way intimately familiar to Violet, but that didn’t change the facts.

“If you’re here talking to me,” Violet said quietly, “I think you know that’s not the case.”

Christine shrugged and dabbed at her nose. “I guess, but...what other choice is there?”

Another question that lacked a satisfactory answer. There had to be something. Violet couldn’t do anything herself, but—

And there it was, an idea abrupt as an electric shock. If her father wasn’t opposed to sabotaging pregnancies, would he be open to even more unconventional means of undermining the program? He could diagnose Christine with something that precluded her from sexual activity. At least for awhile.

It was a stopgap, but a temporary measure was better than none at all, until something more permanent could be figured out. Even though the possibility put her in a difficult position. It was too dangerous to let on that her father intended to be anything but wholly complicit in the program, and she’d already promised to keep Christine’s confidence. But maybe she could drop some hints to her dad, and steer the other girl in the right direction…

“Have you had a checkup lately?” she asked, and without waiting for Christine to answer, barreled ahead: “If nothing else, my dad might be able to prescribe something for anxiety. Or anything else you might need. He’s very understanding.”

A doubtful look. “Do you think it would help?”

“It couldn’t _hurt_ , right?” Well, it could, especially if her idea fell through and her father really couldn’t do anything but offer tranquilizers. Chemical dependence wasn’t pretty, the Vault Tec Edutainment films told her so. But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Her father had to be clever enough to figure out a way to help. Just _had_ to. “And even if you don’t want to tell him what you’ve told me—”

“I don’t!” Christine shrieked. Belatedly realizing her own tone, she quieted down and continued shakily, “I mean, I don’t. I can’t. It’d be all over the vault by dinner time. I can’t cope with that right now...and there’s no telling what the Overseer would do if he found out. God, what would he _do_ to me?”

This time the tears did slip free. Christine frantically scrubbed them from her cheeks with the hanky.

“Okay. It’s okay.” After a brief, heavy pause, Violet reached across the desk and offered her hand for Christine to take. She stared at it for a moment, looked back up with uncertainty and back down again. Gingerly, she slid her free hand into Violet’s, still dabbing at her eyes with the other.

“Thanks,” she sniffled weakly.

“It’s okay.”

“I still don’t like you,” Christine murmured with a tearful frown, staring at their interlocked fingers. “This is weird.”

“ _Everything_ is weird,” Violet agreed. “But look, I’m sure my dad can help somehow. And it won’t even be suspicious for you to go to him. Nobody will think anything of it. Brides get cold feet all the time.”

“Yeah?”

“And if you want, I can kind of—“ How could she put it? She didn’t want to betray Christine’s confidence, but she also didn’t want to just go behind her back, but she also had to make it clear to her father that Christine needed more than getting doped to oblivion. Oh, this being a working chaplain thing was hard! “I can, uh—put a bug in his ear about what you need. Without giving anything away.”

“You’d do that?”

“Well, it’s my job, isn’t it?”

For a good fifteen seconds, Christine considered the proposition in silence.

At last, she said, “You swear you won’t tell?”

“I swear.”

“Okay.”

Violet let out a noisy sigh of relief. “Good. Good! I promise, I’ll do everything I can to help.”

Now she just had to figure out a way to share a secret, without revealing it.

* * *

Violet left her office as soon as Christine was out of sight. She stuck a piece of paper with “Back in twenty minutes” on the door and took off down the corridors as fast as her legs could carry her without it turning into a full sprint. She headed straight for her father’s office, hoping against hope he was alone.

What could she say to him? How could she get across the gravity of Christine’s situation without giving away the specifics?

 _As chaplain, I feel Christine Kendall is in too delicate a condition to marry at this time_. No, that made it sound like she was already super pregnant.

 _Dad, I just learned Christine has a severe, life threatening allergy!_ But for that to work, she’d have to follow it with, _To men._ That was a nope.

 _Dad, I need a favor. Hide Christine in my old room for the next, oh...thirty years? Why? No reason!_ Oh yeah, perfect, that was _totally_ going to do the trick.

She’d come up with something convincing by the time she got to him. Right?

Instead, when she flew into his office and closed the door behind her, what came out of her mouth was the ever-so-discreet, “Christine can’t have sex!”

Her father, behind his desk with his hands poised over the keys of his computer terminal, looked at her, then at the papers that she’d sent swirling off the table beside the door when she swept into the room. They fluttered gently to the floor around her feet. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

“Hi—sorry—good afternoon—sorry!“ Violet dropped to her knees and started scooping up the files. “I mean, you remember when you told me to come to you if anyone came to me—yesterday, I mean, you said if anyone came to me in my capacity as chaplain I should come to you in your capacity as doctor—“

“Sweetheart,” he said with restrained amusement, “you’re babbling. Deep breath.”

“Sorry.” She stood up and shoved the stack of messy paperwork back on the table it’d fallen from. “I need your help.”

“So I gathered.” He punched a few keys—presumably to close whatever he’d been working on—and gave her his full attention, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk. “And I take it this has something to do with your friend Christine.”

“Not friend. We’re not—“ Violet sank down in the chair and held up her hand to stop herself from going off on another babble. “Not important. Dad, she’s going to come for a checkup soon. I need you to find something wrong with her. For—for reasons I can’t tell you. Something that means she can’t have...”

“Marital relations?”

“Yeah.” Violet twisted her fingers together in her lap. “Is...is there anything you can diagnose her with? Something the Overseer will believe?”

“You mean something he’ll _accept_ as a valid medical exemption?” He turned thoughtful, folded his arms over his chest and sat back in his chair. “That’s a rather tall order, sweetheart. I don’t know that he’d even accept something so serious as a _coma_ as an exemption.”

Violet recoiled with disgust. _Gross._ The Overseer didn’t even see them as people, did he? Just incubators and walking strands of DNA.

“Yes, I know. He’s...quite determined to see you all pregnant.”

“Oh, but that’s okay! She’s—“ Violet snapped her mouth shut before she said the wrong thing. “She’s, um, perfectly physically capable of having a baby.”

“What an interesting condition. That’s your professional diagnosis, doctor?”

She pursed her lips. “ _Dad..._ ”

“I apologize, you’re right. Now is not the time for jokes.” The slight laughing expression died away, leaving his face tight and grim. “Violet, tell me something. This isn’t just nerves? This is a situation that absolutely cannot be resolved in any other way?”

“Not that I can think of. Christine cannot, absolutely _can_ _no_ _t_ have sex. I promised her I wouldn’t tell you why, but it’s the truth, I swear.”

Her father mulled that over. There were a number of possibilities for why Christine felt that way, and he’d probably think of all of them. Violet just hoped he wouldn’t settle on the correct one, for the sake of the other girl’s privacy.

“There may be something I can do,” he said, turning more stern, “but I want you to understand that I can’t do this for everyone. A doctor’s note will only work once, if at all. You’re _certain_ this situation warrants my intervention?”

“Yes.”

He sighed and got to his feet to retrieve a medical text from one of his shelves. For a minute he stood flipping through toward the back, searching for something while Violet watched him in tense silence.

“As I recall….” he murmured, more to himself than to her, “V...V...ah. Vaginismus, primary. A likely culprit.”

He dropped the book on his desk , open to a very clinical diagram of muscles and tendons. Violet leaned forward and turned it around so she could skim the description of the condition—involuntary muscle spasms. The sort that c ould make sexual intercourse impossible. Not super common, but not unheard of. It certainly sounded plausible enough to her, and the Overseer knew even less about medical things than she did.

“The real stumbling block,” her father said as he plopped into his chair with what she could only think of as a ‘tired old dad’ noise, “is convincing the Overseer it’s severe enough to excuse her from her marital duties. He won’t look fondly on the loss of a healthy reproductive system. It’d be quite a blow to the program.”

Violet thought about that, worrying her lip between her teeth. “She’s still willing to have babies… Isn’t there any way to make that happen without the other part?”

“Perhaps,” he clasped his hands over his middle and leaned back in the chair. “There are files…“

She waited for him to say more, but he trailed off into dead silence and let the thought die. “Dad?”

He shook himself. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, there are things you can’t tell me as chaplain, and I’m afraid there are also things I can’t tell you as doctor. It’s better you don’t know. Please trust me on that.”

This was a ‘plausible deniability’ thing, wasn’t it? If he told her, and he got in trouble for whatever he was planning, it was better she not know the specifics. Maddening to someone with a curious nature like hers, but she trusted him that it was ultimately for the best. “I understand.”

Her father looked down at his Pip-Boy. “You’d best get back to your office.”

“Yeah. Thanks, dad.” With a grunt, she heaved herself out of the chair and started for the door. She looked back before she hit the button to open it. “You _will_ help her, right?”

“I will.” He smiled in a way meant to be reassuring, but it fell after a moment. “However, I urge you to remember I can’t repeat this particular gambit again. Not even for you, sweetie. You’re going to have to work something else out with Butch.”

Violet swallowed. The surge of adrenaline that fueled her to get here, to help Christine, was already beginning to drain out of her, leaving her feeling shaky and clammy all over. “Yeah. I know.”

With her palm, she slammed the button to open the door. Hopefully, Christine was taken care of and would be okay. Her father would fix her problem if he could, and do _something_ to get keep the Overseer happy, even if she had no inkling what that was. Probably some top secret Vault-Tec laser beam that got people pregnant remotely.

That was good. That was a relief. She felt glad that Christine would be spared some of the indignity and trauma of this damn reproductive program.

But—Violet gulped and wiped her suddenly sweaty hands on the hips of her vault suit— _she_ would still have to do things the old fashioned way.

* * *

The second night, they didn't have to be manhandled into the room by security. Instead, they were politely escorted.

Violet was already in bed when Butch arrived. She was trembling, but not noticeably so, she hoped. She had the covers pulled all the way up to her chin, but at least they weren't over her head. She had come to a decision, and she wasn't going to hide from it like a frightened child.

Butch made it easier on her by not even bothering to acknowledge her presence. Of course, he wasn't giving her the breathing space intentionally, because he was probably too dense to realize she needed it, but she was still grateful. Either the old bullying or their newfound confused sort of alliance would be far too overwhelming if she didn't have a chance to settle herself first.

He had a bottle in his hand, and he fiddled with the top as he loitered by the door, waiting for the lock to engage. When it did, he muttered something under his breath, but he didn't explode into a tantrum. Instead, he turned and finally looked at her.

“Oh, you're in bed already,” he said a little awkwardly. “You tired?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay. I mean, good. 'Cause I have...this.” He held the bottle out toward her.

“What is it?”

“Uh...wedding present,” he mumbled, and then added in a more normal voice, “from my mom. It's champagne. Really fancy stuff. You wanna bust it open?”

“We don't have any glasses.” She'd never had champagne, but she did know enough about it to recognize the special kind of glass it was supposed to go in. Not that they had any of those in the vault, anyway, but a regular wine glass might have worked.

“What, are you too good to drink from the bottle? Besides,” he added proudly, “I'm not trying to be all classy and romantic here. I've got a _plan_.”

“Oh.” She dreaded to hear it, but there was always the chance that his plan was better than hers, so she didn't try to stop him from explaining it.

“Okay, so I made sure Officer Douchebag saw me with this stuff, right? And everybody knows it—y'know—gets you in the mood. So they gotta figure we're going along with all this, and they won't watch us so close.”

“Clever,” she admitted.

“Huh? Really?” He looked so surprised, she actually felt a little bad for all the times she had mocked his intelligence. Sure, he wasn't brilliant, but he wasn't dumb as a post.

“You thought it through,” she told him. “I'm kind of impressed.”

“Okay...” He still seemed wary, but she couldn't think of any way to convince him that she was sincere. “Anyway, I figure we wait a couple hours, then get somebody on the intercom and say you need the bathroom 'cause Miss Goody-Good can't handle her booze. Then whoever comes in, we hit 'em over the head and run,” he finished, hefting the bottle like a club.

She laughed, feeling some of the tension drain out of her. That sounded more like the Butch she knew. Impulsive, impractical, aggressive, and a little bit stupid.

“And what do you propose we do after we attack Officer Douchebag?”

“Ha! You said douchebag.”

“Focus, you infant! What's the next part of your plan?”

“I dunno. We won't be locked in. We can do whatever we want.”

“For how long? You may have noticed we're in a vault—we'll _always_ be locked in.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “I guess I didn't think that far ahead.” He hesitated. “You ever think about going outside?”

 _Outside_ ? No! Of course she'd never thought about it, not seriously. It had never been done.

“We were born in the vault and we'll die in the vault.” It sounded sinister, but that was the way it was.

“Pffft. You sure know how to bring a room down,” he griped. “Just shit all over my brilliant plan. Okay, you got any better ideas?”

Violet inhaled and steeled herself for the little speech she’d prepared. She barely shook at all.

“I have to go in for a medical exam in a few days. Someone’s going to notice if things aren’t...the way they should be, down there, after a lot of activity. We can't keep avoiding this forever. So...if it's a choice between certain death in the wasteland, or _you_...” She sat up, letting the sheet fall away to reveal...everything. Everything from the waist up, anyway. There was only so much she was actually ready for, but it got her point across.

Butch's eyes went wide, and he made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

“Were—were you naked this entire time?”

“No, I changed really quick when you weren't paying attention.” He didn't react to her sarcasm, just kept his gaze riveted to her chest. She held out as long as she could stand it—not very long, really—and then nervously covered herself with her hands. “God, quit acting like you've never seen a naked girl before.”

“Oh—yeah, no, I mean—of course, I've seen _hundreds_ of boobs, but—I mean, yours are—good?”

“You don't have to lie,” she muttered. She knew breasts—she _liked_ breasts—she had spent most of her adolescence being very much aware of how the other girls filled out their vault suits—and she knew that hers were nothing special. They were shaped funny, and Bess was half a cup size bigger than George. She had never let anyone see her without a bra squeezing them up to look like everyone else's. For Butch to be the first was weird enough. She didn't need him to pretend to be nice.

“I'm not lying,” he insisted. “I've seen plenty of boobs.”

“What?” Why was he saying—? She gasped. “You've never seen a boob!”

“I—shut up! I have!”

“ _Virgin_!” she accused triumphantly.

“Shut up, Nosebleed. You don't even know what you're talking about.”

“Really? It kind of seems like you're the one who doesn't—“

“You want me to show you what I know?” he growled. She flinched. A second later, he did, too. If she'd thought it was strange days ago to see guilt written on his face, having it directed at her was almost incomprehensible. “I—I didn't mean like I was gonna pounce on you or something.”

“Okay.” She didn't think she was able to say anything more. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding. She had spent so much time psyching herself up for this, and she still wasn't ready. Not when she had to face it as a reality.

“You want some champagne?” Butch asked desperately. She took some comfort in the fact that he didn't want to be there any more than she did, involuntary physiological response notwithstanding. And alcohol sounded like the best idea he'd had all night. It was supposed to be liquid courage, although she really didn't think that's what champagne was for.

“I'd rather have something harder.” Oh, no. She squeezed her eyes shut and wished she could physically snatch the words out of the air and stuff them back down her throat. “I didn't mean that! Please don't say something gross!”

“Fine, so we'll just do it without talking.” He took a step closer to the bed, only to hesitate again. “Do you...do you want me to kiss you?” he asked, in the same tone that he might have asked if she wanted him to drink poison.

“Kissing is about feelings. Let's just keep this physical.”

“Oh,” he said with a knowing smile. “You want to save your first kiss for your boyfriend, huh?”

“You really think you'd be my first?” The fact that he assumed she had never been kissed needled her almost as much as the assumption that she was only interested in boys.

“Oh, so now you're _not_ a virgin?” he scoffed.

“Only in the most overly simplistic sense of the term.”

Butch sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, frowning.

“Man, why do you always have to use words like that?” he complained. “Just say what you mean.”

“Third base!”

“Oh.” His cheeks reddened, but instead of being embarrassed, he looked at her with newfound respect—and relief. “Well, if _oral_ counts.” He kicked off his boots, looking much happier than he had a moment ago. “Who'd you go down on?”

“None of your business, perv!” She yanked the sheet up to cover herself, and then, remembering that they were supposed to be about to have sex, let it fall. Then she pulled it up again. She didn't owe him a show if she didn't feel like it.

“Was it Freddie?” he asked, overly casual, as he started stripping the foil away from the champagne bottle.

“No, it wasn't Freddie!”

“Okay, so it wasn't Freddie.” He examined the piece of metal that held the cork in place, revealed now that the foil was gone. “How the fuck are you supposed to get into this? Not Wally, right?”

“Ew! Of _course_ not Wally.”

“Just asking.” He managed to pry the metal thing partway off. “I know it wasn't Paul.”

“Why not Paul? I could get with Paul.” She had kissed him, anyway, during a game of spin the bottle at Christine's seventeenth birthday party, which Butch would have known about if he had bothered to show up. Or had he not been invited? But he must have been, if Violet and Amata had.

“Okay, Nosebleed, I think I know Paul a little better than you do, and there's no way you and him—”

The cork popped free of the bottle, and hit her in the eye with the force of a punch.

“Ow!” she shrieked, clasping her hands over her eye. “Butch, what the hell, _what the hell_?!”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—” He tried to pry her hands away. “I'm sorry, let me see—”

“Get _off_ me, Butch, what the hell do you think you're going to do?”

“I'm sorry, here, you can have _all_ the champagne—”

She snatched the bottle out of his hand, keeping one hand over her eye, and drank as much as she could. She only got a couple of large gulps down before she thought she might throw up. Champagne was _not_ for chugging. The bubbles felt like swallowing wooden blocks.

“Ugh! Take it back!” She thrust the bottle at him—and belched.

“Classy!” He took a sip of the champagne, made a face, and pulled her hand down from her eye. “Oh, thank god, it's still in there. That's gonna be a hell of a shiner tomorrow, though. I'm sorry, _really_.” He swiped his knuckles across her cheek to wipe away her tears.

“Do you think any of the other marriages will go this well?” she asked.

“I'll go sleep in the chair,” Butch said, like some kind of martyr. Except, if he were being a martyr, he would have sounded more upset about it. Not like he was being let off the hook. Violet rolled her eyes a little, and winced. It was already swelling up, and she couldn't even go get an ice pack.

“I'm not letting you sleep in the chair,” she huffed.

“Well, I hope you don't expect me to leave, 'cause I can't pick that lock. Believe me, I've tried.”

“Stop talking, Butch!” She took the bottle from him and had another sip of champagne. The bubbles were easier to manage if she took it carefully. She still didn't think she cared for the taste, but it seemed stupid letting it go to waste after she'd nearly lost an eye to the stuff.

“You want to get drunk again?” he asked. She glared at him. “What? That's not talking, it's asking a question.”

“ _Please_ shut up.” She took another sip, because she did seem to like him better when she'd had a few. Too bad, she was forced to admit that champagne was not her drink. She held the bottle out to him. “Take this and strip.”

“Huh?”

“Well, we can't do it through a vault suit!”

“You still want to _do it_?” He took the bottle, but made no move to remove his clothes. And she was glad of that, because she absolutely did not want to go through with this awful, awful plan. But living in dread of the inevitable conclusion was worse than just going ahead with it. If she had to be the one to push them into it, then so be it.

“This is not about what I want, or what you want, it's about what we _have_ to do, so you get as drunk as you need to be to make this happen, take off your clothes, and get it over with!”

“You sure know how to get a guy in the mood.” He tipped the bottle up and took a long pull, then turned to set it on the floor. She waited. For a minute or so, he sat with his back to her, hands on his zipper, not moving.

“Well?” she demanded when she couldn't stand the suspense anymore.

“Can you maybe stop crying first? It's kind of hard to want to do it with a crying girl who's all scared and has a black eye.”

“I'm not—” She sniffled. “—crying. Not because I'm afraid of _you_ , anyway. My eye just hurts, okay?”

“I didn't know it would shoot out like that!”

“It doesn't matter! Just pretend they're tears of joy or something. I was so overcome by the sight of your _killer bod_ , I didn't know what to do with myself.” She couldn't help the sarcasm, but she did feel a little bad after she said it.

“I'll turn the lights off,” Butch muttered. As he crossed the room, she distinctly heard him whisper, “Asshole.”

With the room plunged into darkness—or as dark as it ever got in the vault, with emergency lighting in every room—a sense of unreality set in. She could be dreaming that he was creeping up to her bed. That he was stepping out of his vault suit and folding it neatly. That he was hovering over her in his underwear with an anxious expression she could just barely make out.

“Your dad's pretty cool,” he said hopefully. “Maybe we could skip it, and he wouldn't tell.”

“Sorry, he's not that cool.”

“Then maybe you could do it yourself.”

“You have no idea how the human body works, do you?” She certainly didn't have the ability to leave the correct biochemical traces inside herself.

“Fine.” He took off his t-shirt and folded it, too. Funny, she had always pictured him as a total slob. She wondered how much of this was just him stalling.

Not that she minded stalling a little more.

The underwear was next. She braced herself for her first sight of a fully naked adult male.

It was not everything she had expected.

“Is that it?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

“It—it gets bigger,” he sputtered. “You know, if I see something I like. Not my fault you're such a wet rag.”

Well, she _had_ been about to apologize for making him feel self-conscious, but never mind. He didn't deserve it.

“Maybe we just shouldn’t talk. _At all._ ” She scooted back and to the side on the bed so he could climb in beside her.

“Fine.” He scrambled onto the mattress and almost wrenched the sheet right off her to pull it up over himself—all the way up to his chin.

“Hey!” She yanked it back.

“No talking, remember?”

Grunting and straining, they played tug of war with the too-thin fabric for a few tense seconds until a pop-pop- _riiip_. Stitches burst, the material tore in a three inch jagged line, but they laid off immediately and kept from rending the thing in half.

“Well,” Violet gently tucked the sheet around herself but left enough for him to cover his most important bits, “this is off to a great start.”

“Y’know, if you’re not even going to follow your own no-talking rule...” he grumped in the dim light.

“Just get over here and let’s get this over with!” She flopped back on the mattress and made a grab for his shoulder, trying to pull him with her.

After a moment’s hesitation, he went along and rolled over on top of her. The sheet tangled between them, keeping their skin from meeting. As he tried to fumble it out of the way with one hand, he braced the other beside her head. Somehow, he pinned her hair down with his full weight in a way that almost took her scalp off.

“You’re on my hair!” Violet shrieked. How the hell he managed that when it was so short she didn’t know, but it hurt like a motherfucker. “Get off, get off, get off!”

He tried to untangle himself, but only pulled some of it out—“OW!”—then lost his balance and fell on her, crushing her rib cage and pelvis beneath his. Fuck, he was _heavy_! And made of pointy angles! In this position, it felt like he was nothing but elbows and knees.

After a painful few seconds of mashing her beneath him, Butch tried to get situated on his hands and knees to take the bulk of his weight off her.

“Sorry!” he all but shouted in her ear. “Are you okay?”

Violet made a pained sound and reached up to touch the side of her head. It felt tender and warm. How much hair had he ripped out?

“I’m fine,” she said, but it came out as an unconvincing, almost tearful whine. “God, can’t we do anything right? For fuck’s sake.”

He stared at her for a long moment. It stretched long enough to make her uncomfortable, then broke when he started laughing. Out of nowhere, booming, body-shaking laughter.

“What?” she asked, but he cackled some more and shook his head. “Come on, what?”

“For fuck’s sake!” he said around a mouthful of breathless giggles, like that explained anything at all, like this wasn’t a random turn of events from her perspective. “Get it? We can’t do anything right, not even for the sake of fucking! For fuck’s sake! We can’t fuck, for fuck’s sake!”

That...that was...

Her own laugh startled her, sharp and piercing, forcing itself out into the open air. A dozen more followed the first, until she was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. It was absurd, the whole damn thing was absurd, and she was pretty sure she was going to shatter into a million pieces under the weight of it.

They tired themselves out eventually, after five minutes of uncontrollable belly laughs, and kind of collapsed into each other in exhaustion—though Butch was kind enough to keep from doing it literally. A few more chuckles, a couple of gasps, a handful of titters at whispered repeats of _For fuck’s sake_ , until their breathing returned to normal, and then they were left looking at each other.

With the humor evaporating, Violet became very aware of the fact Butch kneeled between her legs, hovering over her with only a sheet separating them. The moment was intimate and strange, made even moreso by their shared silliness, and growing tense. Her stomach, already sore from laughing, tightened in a different way—an anxious and unpleasant way. She was a hair’s breadth from touching _Butch DeLoria’s dick_ , and soon it’d be less than that.

“So...” Violet cleared her throat and watched, riveted, as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his own. “Are we going to do this?”

Butch licked his lips, but there was nothing sexual about it. He looked the way she felt, the laughter in his eyes draining away to be replaced by fear and discomfort. “I—d’you still want to try?”

“I guess. We don’t really have a choice.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed again. “Listen, can I at least try to...” He trailed off and made a face. “All right, look, this isn’t really going to work unless you can get me going.”

“’Get you going’? How am I supposed to do that? Do you have a starter rope like a lawnmower?” She only knew about those because of cartoons, but the comparison seemed apt. “I’m not going to pull it, if you do.”

“No, come on just—“ He sighed. “Can I just kiss you already? Touch you a little? Jesus, you’re making this hard.”

“Evidently not,” Violet quipped, with a raised brow and pointed glance down their bodies.

“Wise ass.”

Her smirk lingered. “If it’ll help, okay. Just try to be gen—“

His mouth slammed down on hers, lips clamped shut, but with the pressure he applied she still felt his teeth through them. The force of his kiss—if it could even be called that—made her own cut the inside of her lips. There wasn’t an ounce of sensuality in the act, just a stubborn attempt at forcing a physical reaction that neither of their bodies wanted to experience.

Violet tried to get into it, and found it impossible. If a twenty-pound iron bar wrapped in warm, raw meat had been pressing down on her face, it would have been a marked improvement over this kiss. She hadn’t even _seen_ a piece of meat in over a decade, back when the vault still had a few stores of it left, but she shuddered with visceral disgust at the way it looked and felt. This, as much as she hated to admit it, made her feel the same way. It was wrong and bad and she didn’t like it.

Butch pulled back to take a breath, looking pained. She couldn’t imagine she looked any better. “Too rough?”

“A little,” she admitted, and he winced.

“Sorry.”

He buried his face in her neck to run his lips over the skin there. That was a little better than the kiss, though he still blundered through it, too liberal with his teeth. She could at least feel that there might be pleasurable sensations _under_ the discomfort, struggling to get out, if she could ever get to a point where the rest of it wasn’t overwhelming.

She tried to focus on the better parts, willfully drawing them out like tugging a thread, hoping that the awkwardness would unravel and leave nothing but the good stuff. But it didn’t happen.

After a minute or two of mauling her neck from one side to the other and back again, probably leaving a line of marks behind him, one of Butch’s hands found her left breast. He palmed it, squeezed it. She felt nothing but boredom. Even though she tried to find something to like about it, he was just too eager, too clumsy and too inexperienced.

At least it seemed to be doing something for him—she could feel his erection—but he was an eighteen-year-old boy. His body was so flush with hormones his brain was probably floating in them like pickled eggs. His arousal had nothing to do with _her_ and everything to do with simple physical contact.

Against all odds, he picked up on her apathy and withdrew a bit, looking away from her face even though he was still absentmindedly clutching her breast.

“Why’d you stop?”

“This isn’t working. I mean—it is,” he said with a slight, subconscious twitch of his hips, “but not for you. Right?”

“No. Not really.” Violet raised her arms and looped them around his neck. Whether she was doing it to comfort him or reaching out as a means of comforting herself, there was no way to tell. “Let’s be honest, this isn’t really _working_ for either of us. Why should it? It’s not our idea.”

“Yeah,” he whispered in agreement.

“We still have to. I know it’s not ideal, but I can do it,” she shifted under him, enough to pull the sheet loose from between them so their skin could touch, “if you can.”

“You sure?” He looked doubtful, but his erection hadn’t flagged. She could feel it stabbing into her belly like a very dull butter knife. “This kind of...sucks.”

“Yeah, but it won’t kill us.” She bounced on the bed to bump her pelvis against his. “Let’s do this.”

She expected him to melt into her body, to plunge his manhood into her, or sink into her right up to the hilt—all those terrible cliches. But even after he positioned himself and tried to prod her entrance, he couldn’t quite make the logistics work. She wasn’t even a little bit turned on; she was bone dry.

“I’m sorry, I’ve gotta—“

“Yeah,” she laid back on the bed and took a deep breath, “I know. Go ahead.”

He licked two of his fingers and slid them inside her, but even so they felt like sandpaper going in. She tensed up, hips jerking, but she forced herself to settle. He jabbed into her with his fingers, over and over again in a quick, steady rhythm. She still didn’t feel one way or another about it, really—beyond the weirdness of getting fingered by _Butch_ —but she got slightly damp, at least.

It was enough. He stopped his jackhammering, and—with her nodded consent—positioned himself above her to thrust inside.

She screamed at the intrusion and almost came clear off the bed. Holy shit! He was so much bigger than a finger, or two fingers, or anything she’d ever put inside herself before. Why would anyone do this? WHY?

“Are you okay?” he asked, trying not to move so he wouldn’t hurt her more. He failed at that _spectacularly._

“Depends,” she breathed—no, _squeaked_ , “have I split in half?”

“I’m—I’m barely in there.”

“What? _No_.” There couldn’t be more. The human race could never have survived this long if their bodies were so stupidly designed! “Please, _please_ be lying.”

“There’s like s—ten inches to go.”

“WHAT?”

“Okay! Eight!”

“God, Butch!”

“Okay, fine, _six_.”

She punched him in the arm. “That’s not funny!”

“Should I stop?” he asked hopefully.

“No!” She gritted her teeth and wound her fists into the bed sheet on either side of her. “No, damn it! We’ve come this far. We’re going to finish this.”

“Okay—okay. Maybe I can go slow?” He eased farther into her, which only made it feel like getting _slowly_ ripped in half.

“Ow,” she gasped. “Ow, ow, ow—this isn’t helping!”

“Okay!” He stopped moving and just hung over her, sweating and breathing hard—but definitely not from exertion.

“ _Stopping_ isn’t helping! Just stick it in, dammit!”

“Yeah, you really know how to get a guy going,” he grumbled. “Okay, ready?”

“Yes! Fuck me!”

Like they answered her command without his permission, his hips jerked. Not enough to drive him deeper, thank god, but it surprised the hell out of him if the way his eyes bugged out meant anything. Butch made a noise she’d never heard come out of a human being before, and something he’d certainly never admit to making. He gurgled and choked and coughed out, “What?”

Violet's cheeks flushed with heat. She intended it as an expression of frustration, the culmination of all the fits and starts of this ridiculous coupling. She didn’t mean for it to sound like anything else. But it seemed to do something for him, and it made her feel more powerful in spite of everything else—the pain, the emotional discomfort, the anxiety. She still felt no real sexual desire, but at this point she was willing to cling to anything if it’d get them through this faster.

So she said again, slowly, deliberately: “Fuck. Me.”

Butch made another sound like steam escaping from a teapot full of helium, and then _did._

Four shallow thrusts, fifteen seconds and one _very_ goofy cartoon duck noise from Butch later, it was over.

* * *

The ancestors of 101 had brought books with them to the safety of the vault, the day the bombs fell. Books that mattered to them, books they couldn't live without, to supplement the reference materials and the bland excuse for entertainment that made up the Vault-Tec-provided library. And some enterprising, creative souls had written their own in the following years, stories of varying length and quality, most of them set in those strange other worlds of oceans and skies, but inevitably starring exceptional young women born underground.

Violet had read them all, or at least all the ones left in the public library for anyone to take, so she knew that quite a few of them had to do with love and sex, and many of those were about a woman's first time (with a penis. It was always about dick.) They all spoke of the young woman waking the next morning feeling mysterious and fulfilled, with a secret knowledge that set her apart from all her virginal friends, and a fuller understanding of the meaning of her life as a woman.

Violet woke feeling as if she had been screaming into empty space for the last six hours. Also, sore. And it wasn't a “tantalizing pain-and-pleasure” or a soreness that served only as a reminder of the delights of the night before, or any of the other banalities that she had, as it turned out, always recognized for what they were.

She felt like she had been forced to run laps while being repeatedly kicked in the crotch.

At least Butch looked happy, cuddled up next to her with his arm draped over her middle. He was smiling in his sleep. She shoved him away.

“Wha—What is it?” Disoriented, he rolled away from her and right off the edge of the bed, taking the covers with him.

“Ack! Don't look!” she yelped as she tried to cover herself with her pillow. He popped up from the floor, blinking and staring in confusion.

“Why? Oh! That's why.”

He had left the blanket behind when he'd stood up. She got a look at— _everything—_ before he grabbed the other pillow and held it in front of himself.

For a few seconds, they each stared at opposite walls, mortified.

Then she started to giggle.

“What's so funny?” Butch demanded.

“It's just—it's just—” She couldn't suppress her laughter at the absurdity of it all. “It's just, we're _married_ , and we can't even look at each other!”

He relaxed enough to look at her out of the corner of his eye. Then he snickered.

“We totally did it last night.”

“You were _inside_ me!” she cackled.

That set him off. He fell across the bed, laughing too hard to stand up—but not across _her_ , and the fact that they both instinctively refused to touch each other made them both laugh harder.

“We're—we're husband and wife. _Us_!”

“Good morning, Hubby!” she said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “I hate you so much.”

He took her hand and whispered tenderly, “I hate you, too.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advisories for this chapter: more biblical references, homophobia (alluded to), our leads being emotionally immature, closed-off jerks to each other, drinking and mentions of drug use and alcoholism.

There was blood all over the sheets. Violet knew enough biology that she had assumed that wouldn’t happen. The human body was self-lubricating, specifically designed to prevent injury during an act that was necessary for the continuance of the species. But the system relied on hormonal signals that she couldn’t provide, with a partner she didn’t like, who didn’t know how to help her achieve a purely physical response. So, blood.

At least she had proof that they weren’t defying orders.

Violet struggled back into her underwear, and then her vault suit, hearing Butch do the same. They kept their backs turned to each other. It was better, she thought, to maintain the illusion of privacy. Compartmentalize. Let the nights be for sweaty, naked frustration, and live their normal lives during the day.

“Have they unlocked the door yet?” she asked.

“I dunno. I haven’t checked.”

She finished putting her boots on, and went over and tried the door. It didn’t open.

“Crap. I really need the bathroom.” She hadn’t been able to go since drinking that champagne the night before, and she wanted a shower. And more than that, she wanted to get _out_.

She turned to look at Butch, who was still only half-dressed, struggling to pull his zipper up. It seemed to be stuck about halfway.

“What’s the matter, can’t get it up?” she asked without thinking.

“Hey—shut up!”

“Sorry!” She hadn’t meant to embarrass him, really she hadn’t. She was just used to saying any mean thing she could think of just to get him to back off, but she did want to make the effort not to go too far with it. “I didn’t mean that. Here, let me help.”

“That’s okay—” He stepped back as she moved toward him, and they both ended up perilously close to the bed. She could give him a push and send him sprawling back across it—if she wanted to.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Butch, it’s just a stuck zipper.” She took hold of it firmly, all business. Just a girl helping her roommate with a wardrobe problem.

“It’s no big deal. It sticks all the time.”

“I’m not surprised, the way you were yanking on it. You have no finesse.” She pulled the tab up slowly, easing it past teeth that were bent or missing after years of not-too-gentle use. “You need a new vault suit.”

“I like _this_ one.”

“Fine, then wear it until it falls apart. I’m not the boss of you, anyway.” The zipper stopped, too hung up for her to ease it any farther. “Look up.”

“Why?” he asked, as suspicious as she would have been if their positions were reversed. Their past was filled with _What’s that?_ followed by flicks to the nose, among other stupid pranks.

“I don’t want to accidentally punch you in the face,” she told him.

“Oh, yeah, wouldn’t want to do that _accidentally_.” But he did as she asked and tipped his head back, giving her space to move.

She gave the zipper a sharp tug, hard enough to clear the snag and pull it the rest of the way up. She still smacked Butch under the chin with the back of her hand, but not as hard as she would have if he had been looking down at her.

“Sorry!” The two of them together couldn’t do anything right. For fuck’s sake.

Her mind flashed to last night’s _for fuck’s sake_ but she put a firm stop to that. She refused to think about the strange intimacy of laughing nakedly in the dark, so much more open and vulnerable than their stilted sex had been. There were seeds of something there that it was better not to think about. If she did, they might take root.

“I’ll go check the door again. Probably not open yet, but whatever.” She darted over and banged on it. Nothing happened.

“Guess you have to go pretty bad, huh?” Butch asked. She slumped against the door.

“ _Yes_.”

“Want the champagne bottle?”

“Girls don’t pee in bottles, Butch. At least this one doesn—” She turned to face him, and brought herself up short at the unexpected sight of—a stranger. His hair, brushed through with only his fingers and without its signature style, waved back away from his face. His jaw, shadowed by the beginnings of a beard, seemed sharper, more starkly angled. And his general body shape seemed different and new, so much ganglier without his jacket, but with shoulders that promised to qualify as “broad” any day now.

“What,” he said with narrowed eyes. The word lacked the tone of a question; it held the sharpness of accusation instead. She was _staring_ at him.

But what could she say? That when she looked at him, she saw him as an adult for the first time? And that it had nothing to do with sex, or marriage, or even age, but instead seeing his close-held markings of teenage rebellion sloughed off?

His vault suit was _zipped up_ , for crying out loud. Butch didn’t zip his vault suit. Grown men did.

“We have _got_ to get your jacket back.” It was the only thing she could think to say without having to explain herself.

“A- _ha_!” he said, pointing a finger at her like he’d just scored a point. “You _do_ dig the jacket!”

“You bonehead, you know I don’t!” She crossed her arms over her chest and tucked her hands in tight at the crooks of her elbows.

“I think you do.”

“Well, you can _think_ anything you want. That doesn’t make it so.”

Let him harbor the belief that she liked the jacket. It was better than the alternative of him knowing the truth: that for the first time ever she’d looked at him and seen, not that jerk boy who made her adolescence hell, but a grown man who was not _completely_ terrible to look at.

“Hey, don’t worry. It’s not that big a deal. That I’m so irresistible, I mean.” He slouched back against the wall and struck his usual pose, an effect that was somewhat spoiled by the fact that he had no pockets to hook his thumbs into.

He gave her what he probably thought was a come-hither look. She wanted to laugh. For once, she was glad he was such an asshole. If he was an asshole, he was _Butch_ , not some strange, halfway-decent-looking _man_ she’d woken up next to. It evened out the tremor in her hands, and made her stomach settle.

“Yes, Butch,” she said, “Lucky for me without the jacket, I can resist you and your considerable charms.” And then she made a strangled quacking sound—the same kind he made last night in the throes of orgasm.

He blanched.

“I—shut up, I was _surprised_! I’d like to see what you sound like when _you_ —I mean, I wouldn’t _like_ to—I mean—” His mouth snapped shut, and he said through tightly clenched teeth, “Shut up.”

She quacked again.

“Oh yeah? Well—well, we’ll see what weird sounds _you_ make!”

“I very much doubt that, Minute-Man.”

Angry, embarrassed color rose in his face, like the mercury rising in a thermometer. “You’re really _low_ , you know that?”

The words felt like being slapped—but they didn’t just hurt, they made her feel defensive. Like she wanted to fight him on that point, to argue that she was only going as low as he’d ever gone when the opportunity presented itself, that he’d said and done much worse to her over the years, and where the hell did he get off acting like she was the mean one?

But Violet didn’t get the chance to say anything at all. The apartment door opened behind her. Thankfully she wasn’t leaning on it hard enough to fall into the corridor. Without a word, Butch swept past her, past Officer Wolfe, and stomped off.

She could hear his bootfalls echoing all the way down the hallway behind him. And with them, a sinking feeling of guilt stole over her. A gnawing certainty, under her the righteous indignation and sensitivity, that she’d hit below the belt and deserved to feel guilty.

But, she passed by Officer Wolfe and did her own stomping in the opposite direction, she wasn’t ready to admit that. Not to him, and certainly not to herself.

* * *

Violet skipped breakfast and downed two cups of coffee instead. Far from improving her mood, the caffeine made her surlier. That was all the better. She didn’t _want_ to cool off, not yet, not when she felt so justified in her anger. She wanted to hold tight to that feeling, to shove away the niggling trace of guilt.

Why should she feel guilty? Butch was a jerk. Had been a jerk for so many years she couldn’t count them on her fingers. Yes, the violent, physical aspect of their mutual dislike had tapered in the past three, and his most virulent jerkishness peaked at the height of puberty and then declined, but that didn’t change their history. She still had scar tissue, even if the wounds themselves had closed. And the scars still _hurt_ sometimes, when the old Butch shone through the cracks of the new; a phantom pain that twinged and put her on the offensive because she still remembered what playing defense felt like.

But, guilt whispered, they’d been trying to make a go of _something_ in the shadow of the breeding program. Understanding, even if it lacked compassion. Synergy, even if it lacked friendship. Allies against a common enemy with nothing to cling to but each other in their shared misery, trying to forge something new and worthwhile from the ashes.

And, she realized with a lingering sense of shame, he’d been making a more genuine effort than she gave him credit for.

She didn’t have to forgive him for all he’d done, but she did have to move past it if they were going to survive this together. For her own sake, even if she didn’t take his into account.

Violet kicked the leg of the diner table. It still wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t have to be the bigger person. Even if they’d actually given each other the same amount of knocks over the years, Butch had always started it, always had a gang to back him up, and always hit lower than she did. The fair thing would be for her to be the asshole for a change, the one who instigated fights and made offhanded nasty remarks just to hurt his feelings… _That_ would be fair.

But it wouldn’t work. They were stuck together. If she declared war on him this early because she was carrying around old hurts, they’d both be even more miserable than they already were. She didn’t want to spend the next eighteen months on edge, always spoiling for a fight, never getting a moment’s peace because she needed to be ready to defend herself.

Violet wrinkled her nose. She had to apologize. And she had to trust that Butch would meet her halfway instead of preemptively attacking him anytime she felt vulnerable.

Maturity was hard. She kicked the table leg again. Stupid, and hard.

* * *

The clinic had always been Violet’s safe haven, which was ironic when their most frequent patients were the Tunnel Snakes. The guys were always doing something stupid and dangerous that inevitably blew up in their faces, or getting into it with security, or picking fights with each other out of sheer boredom. It was rarely as serious as Paul and Wally’s most recent incident, and Butch was usually involved instead of Paul, but it still hadn’t been surprising when those two had staggered in the other day, bloody and belligerent, and it was no more surprising now when Paul slunk through the door, mumbling that he needed another aspirin.

“I can help you out,” Violet offered. Jonas was busy in the lab, and her dad still hadn’t finished his breakfast but she was perfectly competent to handle this unsupervised. “How bad is it? I can get you another ice pack if you’re still in a lot of pain.”

“Um...no. It doesn’t hurt enough for that, really.” And evidently that was all he was going to say about that. Getting any kind of information out of Paul was like pulling teeth.

“Why are you here?” she prompted. Not that checking up on a couple of broken and dislocated fingers wasn’t a good reason to go to the doctor, but the Tunnel Snakes were usually too cool to keep their follow-up appointments.

“I dunno. Mary said I should.” And then he smiled, like a total doofus. “You know, just check and make sure it’s healing okay.”

Interesting. Paul didn’t smile much, even when things were going well for him. Could he possibly have a little crush on his future wife?

“How is Mary?” Violet asked as she took his hand to begin the exam. They hadn’t spent too much time together since Violet had gotten too old to need a babysitter—Mary used to earn extra ration coupons by looking after the younger kids, and Violet had been one of her regular charges. Mary was a real sweetheart, and, judging by Paul’s dopey grin, he thought so, too.

“She’s good,” Paul said. “I mean, not good. She’s really upset about, you know, her and Tom. But we’ve been talking and stuff. They’re both really nice.”

“That’s good, Paul. I hope it all turns out okay.” She released his hand. It seemed to be healing just fine, and was likely to stay on track as long as he took care of himself. She hoped this visit was a sign that he was going to.

“How’s, um...how’s your whole...you know, thing?” he asked. The Smile was gone, but he didn’t look as sullen as he usually did. He might actually want to have a conversation, which was quite an event.

“It’s...you know. Butch. Me. _Together_.” She shrugged. Paul was Butch’s friend. It was probably better not to go into any detail.

“Um,” he said, and pointed to her eye. He had such a clever way of asking a question without saying a word. Violet ignored the sound of the door opening behind her, and gave Paul an equally eloquent no-big-deal shrug.

“Does it look that bad?”

“Uh...”

“It was just an accident. I’d honestly forgotten all about it,” she said, waving her hand at the bruise. It wasn’t even the worst black eye she’d ever had; she could at least _see_ out of it, unlike several others she could think of in her youth.

“Someone had an accident?” her father asked, quite pleasantly, from just behind her. So he was finally done with his morning coffee. She turned to him, ready to hand off her work to the man in charge.

“Hi, Dad. I was just checking over Paul’s hand.”

He didn’t bother to look at her patient. Instead, he focused his attention on her. He smiled, but it was stiff and brittle, and gave a nod of approval to the work he hadn’t even glanced at.

“Excellent work, sweetie. Excuse me, I think I left the oven on.”

“Oven?” she repeated, but he was already gone.

Utterly confused, she turned her attention back to Paul’s hand. What was all that about? Her father didn’t _have_ an oven.

Paul snickered.

“I’m glad I’m not Butch,” he said

“What do y— _oh, my god_!” Her eye. Her very visibly bruised eye. She dropped Paul’s hand and sprinted after her dad.

He was going to murder Butch before she even got a chance to apologize.

* * *

There was shouting coming from the men’s room. Well, she’d been in there once before and it hadn’t brought about the end of civilization as they knew it.

Violet found her father, the mild-mannered middle-aged intellectual, with one fist twisted up in the front of Butch’s vault suit, and the other pulled back for a punch. He had Butch shoved up against the wall, and Butch had his hands up to defend himself, but didn’t seem to have gone on the offensive yet—thank goodness. She had no doubt that Butch could beat her father to a pulp if he wanted to.

But Butch might not exactly come out of it unscathed, if all the yelling was any indication.

“—I told you once, you delinquent, if you _ever—“_

“—I told _you,_ I don’t know what you’re talking ab—“ He looked past the doctor and caught sight of Violet. And her eye. “Oh, that.” He winced. “Look, I didn’t hit her, okay? Ask her if you don’t believe me!”

“Yeah, Dad, _ask_ me!” She grabbed her father’s arm, just in case he decided not to listen to reason, but her presence seemed to put the quietus on his fury. Or maybe it was the fact that she was defending Butch instead of trying to get in a few hits of her own.

“Oh—er—hello, sweetie.” He sounded sheepish, which at the moment, Violet found infuriating.

“’Oh, hello, sweetie’? You turn into some neanderthal and go tearing out of the clinic to club a man over the head without so much as a do-you-need-my-help and now it’s, ‘Hello, sweetie’?” She wedged herself in between them, face to face with her father, and spread her arms out, creating as large a physical barrier as possible. That, and the look in her eye, were enough to make him take a step back. “Dad, if I wanted you to hit Butch, I’d _tell_ you!”

“What are you trying to do, rescue me?” Butch asked. He sounded sarcastic. She twisted around to glare at him, still keeping herself in position as his human shield.

“Yeah, actually, I am! Maybe I don’t want to be married to you, but you don’t deserve to have your face bashed in for something you didn’t even do.” She turned her head away, but not before she saw his look of surprise and—what else? The tension between them definitely shifted, even if it didn’t go away.

“Ahem—am I to assume that I’ve misjudged the situation?” her father asked.

“Butch didn’t do anything wrong. He’s been acting a lot better than I have, honestly.” She carefully avoided looking around at Butch as she said that. “Please don’t be all overprotective dad. It’s not your style.”

“I see.” He cleared his throat again. “In that case, I apologize for jumping to conclusions.” He looked at Violet, clearly wondering how far he could trust her word regarding her own safety, with a blatant injury staring him in the face.

“I got popped with a champagne cork,” she told him. “Will you get back to work? You left poor Jonas all alone.”

“Ah. Yes. Well. Again, my apologies,” he said, with a nod to Butch. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be hiding in my office.”

He was too dignified to run. But he left.

Violet, still in place as a shield, slumped a little and sighed with relief.

“Listen—“ Butch’s voice came out strained. “—not that I’m not glad you kept your old man from ripping my arms off, but could you…? _”_

“What?”

He made a pained face. “Get off. Me, I mean. I mean, not me. I mean, don’t get me off. Fuck! _Get off me_!”

Oh! When she’d stepped in to stop the fight, she hadn’t cared that she pressed every inch of her back into Butch’s body, as intimately close as they’d been the night before. But Butch didn’t have the luxury of not being aware of her ass rubbing all over his crotch. And that was not his finger poking her in the back.

Violet took a hasty step forward. Having a penis must be _so_ distracting.

It was his turn to sigh with relief and slump. He’d flattened himself against the wall behind her to keep as much distance as possible between them, which she hadn’t noticed, but now she felt bad for putting him in such an awkward position.

Once they had a bit of space between them, she turned to face him. He looked wary. Not hostile, but not welcoming, either. And she made a point not to look down at where he was trying to camouflage _something_ with his hands.

“I’m sorry I quacked!” she blurted out.

“Oh. Okay.” He didn’t remotely lose his guarded expression.

“I’m serious. I was being a d—“ She bit down on the poor choice of word before it could escape. Now was not the time to bring up dicks. He would think she was making fun of him. “Asshole. I was being an asshole.”

He shrugged. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I’m not saying I don’t have any reason to be defensive around you, after the way you’ve always acted—“

“Hang on,” Butch said with a slow smirk, “do you have a speech prepared?”

“As a matter of fact I do, now shut up and let me give it!”

He didn’t bother to hide his amusement when he said _nerd_ under his breath, but she let it go.

“Butch, you’ve been pretty decent lately. Better than decent, even. And I...I know this whole thing isn’t _your_ fault, I’m just scared and taking it out on you and I’m _sorry_.”

“Scared?” His brow furrowed in confusion. “Since when are you scared of anything?”

“Uh, hello? Since you held me down and made me eat glue on the first day of school. You may have noticed I’m not that great at fighting back.”

“Oh,” he said. Just that. Oh.

“I’m still trying to figure out how we’re going to treat each other, as adults.” And as a married couple, she didn’t say.

“Yeah, I get that.” He started to say something else, and then seemed to change his mind about it.

“Sorry,” she said again.

“Yeah, well. I won’t hold you down and make you eat glue,” he said with an embarrassed shrug.

“And I won’t...quack. In fact, I’m making it a rule right now: we don’t talk about... _that_ , except...you know, _then_. The topic is otherwise off limits.”

Sex made them vulnerable in ways they couldn’t control. Better to avoid the temptation of giving each other shit about it. And while the Overseer decided when and how and with whom, she still had the power to decide how to act the rest of the time.

They looked at each other, and Butch’s mouth twitched up into an unwilling smile.

“Did we just make up?” he asked.

“I think so. What a peculiar way to end a fight.”

“Yeah. So now what do we do?”

There was a thump from inside one of the stalls.

“Will you get out of here already? Some of us are trying to use this bathroom as a bathroom!”

“Freddie?” Violet gasped. She slapped Butch’s arm. “You could have told me there was someone in here!”

“Oh, like I had time to check under all the doors while your dad was trying to rough me up.”

“Yeah, okay. And thanks for not hitting him, by the way.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Your dad’s kind of cool, for an old guy.”

“Go away!” Freddie yelled.

“Sorry!”

They ran for the door, crowding each other, and burst through at the same moment. But Butch stopped short, so Violet was the one who ran up against the solid mass of flesh and bone and leather jacket that was on its way in.

She felt Butch pull her back before she’d quite processed the fact that she had collided with Wally Mack. Who was probably still extremely pissed off at both of them.

“Hey, Wally, how’s the head?” Butch asked with an innocent smile. Violet wished she had been quick enough to say that. Then she saw Wally’s fist clench, and she was glad she hadn’t.

“What the fuck were you doing in the men’s room?” he asked.

And, oh, she just hated his stupid voice so much, and she hated his face, and she hated _him_. So. Much.

That was her only excuse for her response.

“Just stopped in for a quickie.” She turned and slipped her arm around Butch’s waist, silently prompting him to pick up the thread. He had to be better at this than she was.

“C’mon, Wally,” Butch said after only the slightest hesitation. “Can’t a guy get some alone time with his own wife?”

When Violet said it, it was just a joke. But somehow, when Butch chimed in, it felt real. Or almost real. Against her better judgment, she glanced down at his...problem area, but saw no visible evidence of what she’d caused a minute ago. Maybe he’d tried thinking about baseball.

Wally’s eyes narrowed to slits, and Violet tried to think of everything Butch had told her about fighting—guard the head, keep the body angled, swing from the hip. But Wally just muttered, “Fuck off,” and shoved past them into the bathroom.

“Why are you friends with him?” Violet asked.

Butch was a creep sometimes, but he wasn’t vicious. She was, to her surprise, able to find common ground with him. She would never, in a thousand lifetimes, be able to stand there with her arm around Wally Mack, or joke around with him, or consider the two of them to be on the same side in any situation.

Wally was the worst.

“Who else was I gonna be friends with?” Butch asked. “You?”

“You’re right, that would be crazy.”

Butch snorted and disentangled himself from her grip, turning toward the door.

“Wait a minute,” she said, “you’re going back in there?”

“I came here to pee, and I’m _going_ to pee, dammit. And tell your old man next time he wants to fight me, he can wait for me to finish what I’m doing first.”

“There won’t be a next time,” she said automatically. “But what about Wally?”

“What _about_ Wally? I won’t—you know—tell him anything about you, if you’re worried.”

“No, it’s fine.” It was good of him to offer to protect their privacy, but Violet had a better idea. “Tell him I can’t get enough of you. Really make him _squirm._ ”

Butch did a double-take. “What?” She grinned knowingly and lifted her eyebrows. He caught on, mostly, though he seemed surprised she’d suggested it at all. Butch returned a similarly wicked, though still slightly puzzled, smile. “Oh. Heh. You’re mean.”

“Yeah,” she said, posturing cockily, “I learned from the best.”

“You saying I’m the best?” He preened a bit and gave her a leer for egotistic effect rather than flirtation. “I mean, I _am_ , but I never thought I’d hear _you_ admit it.”

Violet rolled her eyes and gave him a friendly push toward the door. “Shut up and go do your business, you ass.”

He slammed the button to open the restroom door and raised his voice. “Well, who am I to argue with the Little Wife—” As the door shut behind him, Violet heard the muffled end of that sentence. “—who can’t keep her hands off me? In- _sat_ -ia-ble woman!”

Violet suppressed a giggle, wondered if Butch learned ‘insatiable’ from the same place he’d learned ‘nubile,’ and tried very hard not to think about how she might have created a monster.

* * *

Violet finished her shift in the infirmary without further incident. Her father wisely made himself as scarce as he could, but looked appropriately contrite whenever they got within sight of each other.

When that was all done, she went to the Chaplain’s office. She barely had time to settle there before Christine swept in without bothering to knock, somehow giving the impression of coming in on a swirl of skirts even though she was wearing her vault suit just like everybody else.

“Violet, will you marry me?” she all but demanded. Violet gasped.

“Why, Christine, this is all so sudden!” And she was only half joking about that. Less than a day ago, there’d been tears shed in this very office about Christine’s impending doom. Now she was asking Violet to personally deliver it?

Christine looked blank for a moment before, reluctantly, she smiled.

“Dork, I meant will you marry me to _Jim_? You’ve helped us out a bunch already, I know—“ She gave Violet a _look_ that she understood. Her father had spoken to the Overseer or, if not the Overseer, then at least to Jim. The newlyweds would have an understanding. “And—I don’t want the Overseer to do it. Which he wants to. _Tomorrow._ ”

Understandable. And even if Violet had never performed a wedding ceremony—the most recent one, between Tom and Mary, having taken place before she was settled into the job—it was technically one of her responsibilities to serve anyone who preferred the religious ceremony to the civil one.

“I’d be honored,” she said, already thinking about what she was going to say. She’d start off with a lengthy reading from the Book of Ruth, and end with, ‘What God has joined, let no man tear asunder.’ Every word of it would be a hearty, coded _fuck you_ to the Overseer.

But that might get Christine in trouble. She couldn’t spring it on her without warning.

“I have the perfect thing to read at the ceremony, with your permission.” She opened her Bible to the story of Ruth and Naomi, which wasn’t difficult to find; it contained some of her favorite passages, the ones she had read again and again when she couldn’t devote another moment’s concentration to centuries-long genealogies or rules about eating that were meaningless now that all the animals were extinct. She handed the book to Christine.

“ _But Ruth said, ‘Do not urge me to leave you or return from following you. For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God. May the Lord do so to me and more also if anything but death parts me from you.’_ That’s nice, I guess,” Christine said with a shrug. “Kind of permanent for our situation, though.” Her brow furrowed in confusion as she skipped back to the previous page to read again. “Wait a minute, is this between two _women_?”

“Two women,” Violet confirmed. She wasn’t completely sure that Ruth was meant to be declaring her romantic love for Naomi, but much like with Jonathan and David loving each other ‘with a love surpassing that of women,’ she _felt_ the rightness of her interpretation.

When the Overseer found Violet absorbed in her precious contraband book years ago, he led her to believe that its contents were nothing but a pre-war relic. That some early dweller had smuggled it in, and she never should have known about the possibility of being attracted to women—like it wouldn’t have occurred to her, if only she hadn’t been corrupted by its influence. To hear him tell it, it was an unsustainable fantasy in Vault-Tec’s idea of a society.

But a year later, when she took over the dusty chaplain’s office _,_ she found _that_. Ruth and Naomi, Jonathan and David, and other bits of subtext that spoke to her in secret ways, sewn throughout the metaphorical nonsense she couldn’t understand. And all in a book with “This Edition Produced Exclusively for Vault-Tec!” printed on the inside cover.

Violet had cried the day she realized religion had a place for her—that the v _ault_ had a place for her—and always had, regardless of how the Overseer and his predecessors tried to to twist the truth.

From the look of her, the idea had rocked the foundation of Christine’s world to the same degree.

“Why doesn’t anyone ever _talk_ about this?” she asked.

“I get the feeling the vault is missing out on a lot of things this book was supposed to teach us.”

Christine’s hand trembled as she pushed the book back to Violet’s side of the desk.

“I want this at my wedding,” she said. “ _All_ my weddings. I don’t care who hears it or what they think. I want it.”

“You’ve got it.”

They smiled at each other. They still weren’t friends, maybe never would be, but in that moment, eighteen years of mutual dislike settled into something a lot more comfortable.

A knock came at the door before Violet could ask how Jim was feeling about the wedding. It opened, and Janice Wilkins took two steps into the room, spotted Christine, and froze stiff.

“Oh. Sorry. I’ll come back later. Or—never.” She turned around and ran face-first into the door, which had closed behind her.

“Hi, Janice,” Christine said politely. Janice faced them again, wide-eyed and crimson-faced.

“H-hi.”

“Come on in.” Violet stood, offering her own chair for the sake of hospitality. If people were going to start taking advantage of her office hours, she needed to get more furniture. “What can I help you with?”

“Um...” Janice took one step farther into the room and froze again. “I heard nuns don’t have to get married. Is that true?”

* * *

Janice—as far as Violet could tell, since she communicated mostly through blushes and tight-lipped nods—had no problem _being_ with a man, as long as she didn’t have to _talk_ to him. She actually seemed comforted by Christine’s helpful suggestion that Stevie was almost certainly never going to ask her to speak.

Violet regretfully pointed out that taking holy orders was not an option for a vault dweller. If it were, she’d have jumped on that ages ago. She did _not_ mention that nuns had also been known to take vows of silence, for fear that Janice would fall into a religious fervor then and there.

Violet was just trying to think of a tactful way to suggest that Janice go to the clinic for the anti-anxiety medication she knew her father kept on hand, when the door opened again—again without a knock—and Amata slipped inside.

“I finally ducked the warden! So, tell me everything, does Butch have a needle-dick?--Oh,” she said, turning to see Janice and Christine. “Hey, guys. Having a party without me?”

“See?” Christine said to Janice. “Your entrance was not that bad.” And then, to Violet: “ _Does_ Butch have a needle-dick?”

Janice nodded eagerly.

God.

“It’s—fine. Average.” Nothing to write home about, she was going to say. But when she thought about what he could be saying about _her_ behind her back, and the way he’d all but promised not to, she couldn’t bring herself to insult him.

“What a tepid response,” Amata stage-whispered to Christine. “I think we have our answer.”

“Amata!”

“Okay, okay, never mind size. How _is_ he? Completely awful, or just _mostly_ awful? Inquiring minds want to know!”

“Come on, chaplain,” Christine urged when she didn’t didn’t answer. “This might be your last chance to school a bunch of virgins.” That got her a surprised look from Amata, but no comment. They all stared at her eagerly. They weren’t going to let it go. And they were never going to believe that it had been _good_. Amata knew her feelings about Butch, Christine knew her preferences, and Janice...she was shy, not stupid.

“Mostly _,_ ” Violet said, and hoped that would be enough.

“ _Oo-ooh_ ,” the other three said together, as if she had confessed to some grand passion.

“Why only mostly awful?” Amata asked.

Violet managed to keep a totally straight face as she informed them, “It had the virtue of brevity.”

* * *

The Overseer tracked his daughter down after an hour of freedom, and found the four of them arranged in a circle on the floor, giggling and speculating about various possibilities for their futures. At least Violet had managed to turn the focus away from Butch without any further confessions.

“And just what are you up to _this_ time?” he thundered.

They favored him with their most angelic smiles.

“Bible study.”

* * *

When Violet’s office hours ended, her second shorter shift in the infirmary was through, and her dinner was eaten, exhaustion caught up with her. A fatigue that wormed its way into both muscle and brain in equal measure. Though it was barely five-thirty, she retired to the apartment, grateful to find it empty so she could stretch out on the bed alone.

Violet hurt all over. Being on her feet most of the day, she was used to some aches and pains. Sex had added a new dimension of discomfort, though. The deep, nagging tenderness from penetration was to be expected, but she hadn’t anticipated that it could cause other problems. All day long she caught herself in odd positions, trying and failing to minimize the soreness between her legs. When she sat, she leaned to one side or the other and it had taken a toll on her hips and back. When she stood, she tried to accommodate the pain but that just made her whole pelvis feel slightly out of alignment.

She didn’t think she could handle another round of sex even if she actually wanted it. And she didn’t think Butch would mind skipping a night. She hoped he wouldn’t, anyway.

But she knew she should discuss it with him, so she waited for him, still dressed, in the bed, with a book that became harder and harder to concentrate on as he continued to fail to appear.

As their curfew approached, she finally set the book aside and went looking for him.

He wasn’t hard to find. From the first storage closet she passed, she heard stifled laughter and an enthusiastic, “Tunnel Snakes forever!” that sounded like Paul.

Violet knocked on the door, and heard a furtive scuffling and whispers of, “Shit!” and, “Hide it!”

The door opened, and she found herself face to face with Paul, who snorted with relief when he saw her.

“Oh, it’s just you.”

Beyond him, Butch and Freddie were sitting on the floor, wedged into the narrow space between shelves. Wally was not in attendance.

And Butch looked awful. He had a black eye to match hers, and a nasty lump on his forehead, and a smear of blood across his cheek from a bloody nose that he’d halfheartedly tried to wipe clean. When he reached around to pull a nearly-empty liquor bottle from behind his back, he did it carefully, wincing and keeping one arm tight against his side.

But he was happy.

“Hey, nerd,” he said, holding the bottle out to her. “Want some?”

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“I kicked Wally’s ass, that’s what!”

“With your _face_?”

“You should see what _he_ looks like,” he said with a dismissive wave that belied the smugness in his voice.

“But don’t tell anybody,” Freddie added. “They broke a toilet.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Butch said. “She’s cool.”

Violet didn’t know why she should feel so—well— _validated_ by that. She was _cool_. She could be trusted not to squeal on them. She was even worth inviting to share their booze. He never would have said that about her before. Probably because she wouldn't have touched the liquor, and would have been happy to rat them out.

Well, things changed. She squeezed her way into the closet and sat, close enough to Butch she could have leaned back and been in his lap. Paul shut and locked the door, and resumed his own seat by Freddie.

There wasn’t enough room for four people in there. They were all too close together, a jumble of knees and elbows, but nobody seemed to mind. This was just how it was. Sometimes you had to go to great lengths to find any privacy in a vault.

There weren’t more than a couple of swallows left in the bottle Butch was offering. She gave him a questioning look as she took it.

“Kill it if you want,” he said.

So she tipped the bottle up and drained it dry. She had to whip her head sideways in distress as it burned its way down her throat. Tears pricked at her eyes for a second. Then she was fine, and all the boys cheered.

The warmth of it spread through her chest, much quicker than the vodka had the other night, and she found herself wanting to relax. But the only way to do that was to lean back against Butch which... _might_ be an option, except that she didn’t know how he would take it, or how the guys would, and maybe she was making a terrible mistake just trying to hang out with them, and she had no business relaxing at all—which, clearly, she wasn’t. Relaxed, that is. She was sitting there babbling inside her own head, and they could all see her tensing up, and now they were going to call her a loser.

She _should_ lean against him, just to prove that she could. Except, if the way he was shielding his side was any indication, putting pressure on his ribs might not be the kindest thing to do. So she stayed upright, because apparently she cared about being kind to Butch now.

“What did I just drink?” Her voice came out hoarse, but not as strangled as she might have expected.

“Gin,” said Paul. “Me and Freddie made it.”

“I told you,” Freddie argued, “it’s not gin, it’s _moonshine_.”

“You said we could make martinis out of it. That makes it gin.”

Well, his logic was unassailable.

“Call it whatever you want,” said Butch. “Just don’t stop making it.”

Violet had to admit, she was kind of impressed. They were making their own alcohol, and no one was going blind from it. Paul’s engineering skills had really improved, if he was able to put together a still. And Freddie must be supplying the raw ingredients, smuggled away from his work in hydroponics. She wondered where they were hiding everything. But she didn’t ask. The less she knew, the less chance she’d have of letting something slip by accident.

They hung out for a while, talking—or, rather, the guys talked and Violet listened quietly. They were as self-conscious as she was, and everything was just as awkward as it could be, so she was glad to nudge Butch and remind him that it was almost seven o’clock.

“Curfew,” he said in disgust, but he let her drag him to his feet, and they wormed their way out of the storage closet. Paul and Freddie stayed behind.

“So, is Freddie in the gang now?” Violet asked as the closet door closed behind them. She tried, discreetly, to offer him her arm for balance, but he wasn’t drunk enough to take advantage of it. Or he wasn’t hurt badly enough. Either way, he wouldn’t be staggering into the walls, so she kept her distance as they walked back to their room.

He waited until they were inside to answer her.

“Freddie’s an okay guy and all. I got nothing against him. But he’ll never be a Tunnel Snake.”

“So, what, you just keep him around for the free booze?” She wasn’t sure why she should even care—she had always liked Freddie, but she couldn’t say she had ever gotten close to him. Amata wouldn’t have stood for that. Besides, he was probably better off not being a member of the “baddest gang in the vault.”

But it wasn’t fair, the way they were treating him. It looked like just another form of bullying, no different than when Susie and Christine used to cozy up to her and Amata just to get the nerds to do their homework for them.

“Look, it’s no big deal, okay? Just drop it.” He sank onto the bed, carefully, like an old man. Violet winced in sympathy.

“Can I check you out?—I mean, look you over,” she corrected herself. “Do you want my medical opinion of your condition? Damn it!”

“Ha—ow,” he said, cutting off a laugh before it began.

“All right, strip,” she ordered. And before he could look too smarmy about it, she added, “I just want to know if anything’s broken.”

“Why?”

“So I can help you, stupid.”

“ _Why_?” he asked again. He seemed genuinely confused. She sighed.

“Because I don’t want to hear you whining about it later, all right?”

“I don’t whine,” he protested.

“Sure, Butch.” She flung herself into the chair. If he didn’t want her to help, what did she care if he had six shattered ribs and internal bleeding?

“Are you mad?” Butch asked.

“No, of course not.” Even as she said it, she realized—“Dammit, yes, I am. You’re being difficult!”

“So? What do you care?”

“I don’t.” She wanted to say that she had no reason to care, because she _hated_ him, but she was only going to sound petulant if she did. More so than she already was. “I don’t want to wake up next to a dead body, if you must know.”

“Look, it’s not that big a deal, okay? Wally punched me, I punched him, he ran me into the sink, I ran him into the wall. Then he tried to dunk my head in the toilet, and Freddie pulled him off me—not that I needed the help. That’s all that happened, all right?”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you can’t take care of yourself. I’m just used to patching up everyone’s injuries, that’s all.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He settled back on the bed with a sigh. “I guess living with the doc’s kid won’t be all bad. Maybe...” He hesitated, obviously embarrassed to ask for anything. “Maybe if I’m still sore tomorrow, you could get me some painkillers?”

“I don’t have access to anything stronger than aspirin,” she said.

“That’s fine.”

“I mean, if you want to talk to my dad—“

“Aspirin’s fine!”

Violet laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of my dad now. _My_ dad? The _doctor_? The first-do-no-harm _doctor?_ ”

“First do what?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. _No_ , I’m not scared of him.” He hunched over with his elbows on his knees, staring at her with his head angled slightly down, trying to look tough. It would have worked, but all she could think about was how many hours he must’ve spent in the mirror practicing to get it right. “If he took a swing at me, I’d have had to put him down and I don’t want to beat my old lady’s old man to death, is all.”

Mm. Maybe she had a hard time believing anyone could be scared of her father, but she had a harder time believing Butch’s insistence he wasn’t. Especially since he was trying _so hard_ to convince her.

“If I’m your old lady, shouldn’t _you_ be my old man?”

“I—y’know what? Shut up.”

“Only if you go ask my dad for a Med-X,” she teased.

“I don’t _need_ a Med-X!”

“Suit yourself,” Violet said, swinging her legs up and over one of the chair arms so she could sit more comfortably. “But I’ll warn you right now, if you’re thinking I’ll kiss it better, that’s not proper first aid.”

“Hell, no!” He recoiled in apparent horror. Then he laughed. “I mean, not tonight, dear, I have a headache.”

“Good. Me, too.” She shifted and winced, though she tried not to show her discomfort so obviously. But he noticed.

“Guessing your headache’s a little...lower.”

“Oh, yeah.” Violet gave him a weak smirk. “It’s in my chin.”

“Smartass.” He moved back on the mattress to make room for her to come to bed if she wanted, but didn’t draw any attention to the act of courtesy.

* * *

Hours later, after they’d both gone to bed, the beep-beeping of a game of Atomic Command pulled her out of a shallow doze. She opened her eyes to near-darkness, tinged with a familiar green.

“Butch?”

The beeping stopped. The glow dimmed, as well, until she could barely make out the shape of him, over in the chair.

“Go back to sleep,” he said.

“ _You_ go back to sleep. It’s—“ She checked her own Pip-Boy. “Two in the morning.” She sat up, scrubbing at her eyes. “At least get back in bed. You’ll hurt worse in the morning if you don’t. If you’re concerned for your virtue, you can stay on stop of the blanket.”

“My _what_?”

“Never mind.” She yawned. “Why are you up?” She had thought he was out cold when she’d drifted off. Violet stayed up to read after their not-quite-an-argument, and by the time she was through with the chapter she was in the middle of, he was snoring away beside her.

“I just can’t sleep. I don’t know. I guess I’m used to it.”

“What, are you out every night roaming the halls and toilet papering offices? I thought we had something special.”

“No—and shut up.” He shifted around in the chair and finally sighed. “Okay, move. I’m coming back to bed.”

“If you want.” She didn’t rise to meet the implied challenge in his tone. He seemed to think he was calling her bluff, but she really didn’t mind having him near. If they were going to sleep together, they might as well _sleep_ together.

“Move over,” he said, just to have something to say, since she was already taking up less than half of the bed space. They engaged in a perfunctory tug-of-war over the blanket, and then lay quiet in the dark.

They were arranged so that a fold of the blanket fell between them, preserving them from the close contact that neither one desired. They were both still in their vault suits—not a comfortable way to sleep, but she was grateful for it. It made things feel more like an ill-conceived slumber party than a forced marriage.

“Hey, remember when your mom had the flu?” she asked, thinking of the only time in their lives they had spent the night together before all _this_ got started. She felt the bed shift as he turned over to look at her, still keeping a sufficient barrier between their bodies.

“What are you talking about? My mom never had the flu.”

“Don’t you remember? We were probably seven or eight. She had to stay in the clinic overnight and my dad didn’t want to leave you by yourself, so he made you get your little sleeping bag and bed down in my room.”

“Oh, _that_.” He laughed. “You were such an asshole. ‘My father lets _me_ stay home alone, Butch, you’re a _baby_.’”

“Well, how many opportunities was I going to get to be the one saying that to you?” She had forgotten that, but now it was coming back to her. “And you told me my dad only left me alone because he didn’t really love me, so don’t tell me I was the asshole.”

“Ouch. Sorry.”

He sounded sincere, which came as a surprise when they were talking about an incident from ten years ago that she hadn’t even quite remembered until he reminded her.

“It’s not like I believed you,” she said with a shrug. “Um...sorry I poured water on your sleeping bag and said you peed yourself.”

“Heh, yeah. That was a good one. Sorry about what I did to your little monkey toy thing.”

“Sorry I spat on your toothbrush.”

“You spat on my toothbrush?”

“I never told you?” She remembered getting it out of his bag while he slept, inordinately pleased with herself for her creativity and her daring. Apparently, she hadn’t been daring enough to risk whatever he might come up with in retaliation.

“Man, you’re the worst.” He slugged her in the arm, but not hard enough to hurt. She could almost bring herself to consider it friendly, the way she had seen him and the other Tunnel Snakes knock each other around just to have something to do.

“ _You’re_ the worst,” she said, without anger. “I don’t know what my dad was thinking, sticking you with me.”

“You’re a gullible little dork.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you were when you were eight, anyway. Your dad was trying to be nice to me because he knew you were the only one dumb enough to believe it was just the flu.”

“You mean it wasn’t?” She turned over to look at him, and he rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

“You really don’t know?”

“I was never in the habit of questioning what my father told me.” But from an adult perspective, yes, she could imagine any number of things that could have happened, that he wouldn’t have wanted her to know.

“You’re a little Goody Two-Shoes,” Butch said. “I guess that’s not always so terrible, though.”

“I really am sorry I was mean to you that night, if it was something serious. You must have been pretty upset.”

“Nah. You kinda took my mind off it.”

He went quiet for so long, she started to think he’d gone back to sleep. She let her own eyes drift shut. Then a murmur came to her in the dark:

“Don’t ever mix booze and Med-X.”

“Okay?” she sleepily replied.

“I woke up in the middle of the night and found her. I thought she was dead. So, yeah, I was pretty upset.”

“Oh...” She had the impulse to reach out to him, silly as that sounded inside her own head, but he turned his back to her and saved her the awkwardness of trying.

“Yeah, whatever. Mom always has a crisis in the middle of the night. It’s why I sleep weird hours.” His Pip-Boy lit up again, and his game restarted.

“Sorry,” she repeated. He ignored her.

Violet rolled over so the light wasn’t in her eyes. She thought about trying to say something else, but she couldn’t think of anything until, all at once, she remembered. “Oh, shit.”

“Hm?” Butch said, distracted.

“I just—er, sorry, did I say that out loud?” Violet turned her head toward him, but kept her body angled away. “I just realized...”

“What?”

“I was teasing you about taking Med-X while you were drunk,” she said quietly. “I’m a jerk.”

She felt him shrug rather than seeing it. “Yeah, but not for that. You didn't know.”

“Sorry. Again.” Violet wrinkled her nose and turned back over to bury her face in her pillow. “Ugh. God. What is this, like...the sixth time I’ve apologized to you today?”

The Atomic Command sounds cut off. He turned his head her direction, but they still couldn’t _quite_ look at each other.

“Eleventh,” he said.

“You’ve been _counting_?”

“You’re still a gullible little dork.” He turned away from her once more and restarted the game. “Go to sleep.”

Her brow furrowed at that. He didn’t snicker the way he usually did when he got one over on her. She couldn’t be sure if he really had been keeping track and was covering for it, or if he was just yanking her chain.

Violet shook her head and fluffed her pillow. “’Night, dickhead.”

“’Night, dorkface.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Advisories** : Brief sexual harassment (Wally Mack continues to be gross), our leads struggle with respecting each other's boundaries, and some dysfunctional emotional reactions.

Violet woke to an empty room. A glance at her Pip-Boy with its knobs turned the wrong directions told her she overslept. She’d rolled over on it and deactivated the alarm.

It would’ve been easy to blame Butch for not waking her before he left, but it also would have been petty and ridiculous. He wasn’t responsible for her any more than she was for him. Besides, if she were being honest, even if he’d tried she would have shaken him off and gone right back to sleep. After years of conditioning, a Pip-Boy’s chirps were the only thing that could rouse her. Otherwise, she slept like the dead.

As she hauled herself out of bed to dress, she hoped Jonas remembered to clock her in on time. The last time he hadn’t, the Overseer decided to micromanage her every move for a full week. Violet couldn’t handle another round of his ‘maximum efficiency agenda.’ Go here, go there, no breaks or sitting and oh by the way, your every spare moment is now filled by janitorial duties. “Hard work is happy work” her ass.

To offset her tardiness, she skipped breakfast, but the rest of her morning newlywed routine went undisturbed. A quick trip to the bathroom, a few hours in the clinic, and a hasty lunch. She even found time to squeeze in a shower and reached the chaplain’s office on time with her hair still wet.

Mid-afternoon, her schedule gained a wrinkle: marrying off Christine and Jim.

They arrived separately. Jim, escorted by the Overseer, and Christine by Mr. Brotch. It didn’t surprise Violet much that their families weren’t in attendance. Both broods were large enough that all of them leaving their stations would have thrown the Vault’s delicate balance into chaos.

Jim looked tidy enough. He’d pressed his vault suit, combed his hair and put on a lopsided bow tie. Christine wore the same powder blue formal dress she’d had all through school, but hemmed differently and let out on the sides to accommodate her adult frame. She’d also pulled her hair back and fastened it with a comb. Plastic, brown tortoiseshell, nothing fancy in pre-war terms, but an obvious heirloom all the same. If not for the fingers twisting in her skirt and her downcast eyes, she’d have looked like a perfect bride.

Violet wanted to go to her, take her hands and reassure her, but the Overseer’s scrutiny discouraged it. “Bible study” between four giggling teenage girls was one thing, but he knew she’d never gotten along with Christine one-on-one. If she acted too warmly, he’d become even more suspicious. The doctor’s meddling daughter suddenly all over a girl who supposedly can’t sleep with her husbands because that doctor said so? He’d put two and two together.

Instead, she greeted them both curtly and got on with the proceedings. Violet unfolded the notes she’d written, starting with the recommended introduction from the Vault-Tec Brochure of Sample Weddings, Funerals and Celebrations.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God, the Overseer, and Vault-Tec...”

She hardly stuttered through ceremony at all, even with the Overseer staring holes through her head and judging her every slip-up. When she got to the reading from Ruth, she dared to look him right in the eye on the line, _‘_ What God has joined, let no man tear asunder.’

He pressed his lips together so hard they disappeared, but didn’t interrupt. When she was through, and the vows had been exchanged, Jim and Christine shared a reluctant peck on the lips. Mr. Brotch—who’d been trying to blend into the walls up ‘til then—was first to congratulate them but couldn’t hide his distaste with the whole affair.

Next, the Overseer wished them a fruitful marriage, and took Violet’s hand to commend her on a fine service. His bruising grip left no question about what he thought of her choice of scripture.

“Might I suggest that next time,” he said, quite congenial in spite of crushing her fingers, “you might branch out into the new testament? ‘Submit yourselves for the Lord's sake to every human institution. Obey the Overseer. He holds the highest position of authority.’ That’s the first book of Peter, I believe.”

Violet flinched. “Yes, sir.”

Peter? She hated Peter. Nothing but rules and dense metaphors, even more than some of the other books. Of course the Overseer would love _that,_ especially with the specific additions Vault-Tec obviously made to their edition of the bible. Anything that encouraged unquestioning obedience and could confuse his subjects was bound to be a favorite.

Violet extracted her hand from his and went to offer well wishes to the unhappy couple. They did their best to look cheerful.

The Overseer could ‘suggest’ different scriptures all he wanted. Maybe someday he’d try to force the issue, strip her of her office or deny her the ability to do anything off script, but for now, her first duty was to the other vault dwellers and what _they_ wanted. Unless one of them asked for that particular piece of propaganda in their wedding vows, she wouldn’t bring it up. It was a small rebellion, but that was the only kind she had.

She smiled when Christine thanked her, but Violet didn’t feel the emotion to match. Not with a fresh reminder that small rebellions were the only kind they’d _ever_ have.

* * *

With the rest of her afternoon free, Violet went back to the room looking for something to read. She found Butch stomping around the place.

“What are you doing here in the middle of the day?” she asked. “Am I about to find another woman hiding in the closet?”

“What closet?”

“It’s a joke, you dingdong.” And an obvious one that he should have gotten. Their apartment was one of the small ones; it didn’t even have two rooms. Violet startled when Butch slammed a dresser drawer. “What’s your problem?”

“Your face.” He opened another drawer just to have something to slam. “Why do we even have a dresser? We got nothin’ to put in it.”

“Maybe _you_ don’t.” Which reminded her that she technically still hadn’t unpacked. Her things were half-bundled up in their blanket in the corner, where they’d been since the first night they moved in together. The past few days, she’d picked through to take out whatever she needed; she didn’t feel like dealing with it properly with everything else going on.

He opened the last drawer, peered inside and then slammed that, too. Fuming and with nothing left to do, Butch crossed to the bed and threw himself down on it.

“Are you looking for something?” Violet asked.

Butch made a sound somewhere between a snort and a grunt.

With a shrug, Violet went to her bundle and scooped up a wad of socks and underwear. She might as well take care of it before she forgot.

“I’m taking the top drawer,” she said, and dumped it all in without bothering to fold it. “Don’t touch my stuff, and I won’t touch yours.”

“I don’t have _stuff_ ,” Butch mumbled into the pillow.

“You don’t have any spare vault suits?”

“If I did, you think I’d be wearing this broken one?” He rolled onto his back to pull on the zipper. It didn’t move.

“You can’t have just one vault suit. What happened to the one I lent you? My dad’s?”

“I _did_ have more, but Wally runs the laundry cannons now, and he’s pissed at me. I’ll probably never get my shit back.” He grumbled. “Or your old man’s.” Butch pointed at her suddenly, accusingly. “And I won’t give that dickhead the satisfaction of beggin’ him for anything, so don’t ask!”

“I wasn’t going to.” Violet closed the drawer, more gently than Butch had. Her dad didn’t have any more suits as far as she knew, so she couldn’t offer one as an alternative. Butch could go to the commissary and trade in a ration coupon for another one if it didn’t threaten his pride, but she got the feeling it would. “I guess you can just wear that one until he cools off.”

“Psht,” he shot back. “Yeah. Maybe you ain’t noticed, Vi—” _Vi?_ Her eyebrows rose. “—but I’ve been wearin’ this one since we got married.”

“You are getting kind of ripe,” she admitted, with a sniff his direction.

“Hey!”

“Well, it’s true!” And anyway, his estimate seemed generous. If her guess was right, it was the same vault suit he’d been wearing when they set fire to the Overseer’s office. Oh, he’d traded it for her dad’s in the holding cell because it was wet, but at the wedding ceremony he’d been wearing it again. Since she could still see soot on one sleeve, she doubted it had been washed before that. “And don’t call me ‘Vi.’”

“Vi-o-letta,” he sneered.

“Butch, come on.”

“Violin?”

Her blood pressure jumped; Violet knew the first spark of real irritation better than anything. Butch always struck that particular match and threw fuel on it. The reflex to lay into him was immediate.

What stopped her was that he looked eager for it. He was spoiling for a fight, one that had nothing to do with her. Just like she’d done to him in the diner, during their night of mischief that felt like a lifetime ago. She’d pushed his buttons because she was furious and needed some to press.

But for all her baiting, he’d controlled himself. If they were going to make this work, she had to do that too. She had to get in the habit of doing it. What better time to start?

Violet took a deep breath. She counted to ten. “Butch, you’re acting like an ass.”

“Yeah?” His eyes glittered with challenge. “And what’re you gonna do about it?”

“I’m going to go to the commissary and I’m going to get you a new vault suit.”

The glint in his eyes winked out. “What?”

“You’re acting like a clod because you have a problem. The good news is, it’s one I can solve.” Violet put her hands on her hips. She would brook no argument. “So, I will. I have a ration coupon left over from my birthday and I’m going to use it.”

Really, she didn’t have one ‘left over.’ It was the only one she’d gotten and she’d been saving it. But hell, they were married now, what was she saving it for? Anything she got would have to be shared anyway. Might as well use it on something useful.

“You kiddin’?”

“No. If it’ll make you stop acting like a petulant—” She told herself to smile at him. It didn’t work out, but at least she tried. “If it makes you _feel better_ , then yeah, I’ll do it.”

He went slack-jawed. He didn’t ogle or scowl or make an off-color remark, which she would have expected. Kindness stunned him into silence. Violet didn’t know what to do with the self-consciousness that made her feel, so she looked away.

She knelt by her blanket bundle to search for her precious unrestricted coupon. There were only a few of those in each book, even more scarce than the ones for luxury items, and they could be redeemed for _anything_ —but really, what was she going to spend it on? New books? The latest Hollywood film? There _was_ nothing new in a vault. There was ‘old’ and there was ‘recycled but still made from old.’

When she found it, tucked away in one of her books, she scooped up the coupon and stood. “You’re, what, a thirty-two long in one size fits all?”

“Hey, now, wait a minute—“

“Not listening.” She waved him off and headed for the door.

“Nosebleed, _wait_!”

But Violet didn’t hang around to see if he had anything else to say.

* * *

Tom and Mary ran the commissary together, which was nice, Violet thought. At least they would still get to see each other every day, even after they were forced to live apart.

They said they were what the old world would have called high school sweethearts. She wondered if they had been in love at sixteen, and Mr. Brotch had fiddled with their G.O.A.T. results to let them work together out of some secret sense of romance. Or maybe it was on the job that they had fallen for each other, day after day of close contact breaking down the vault dwellers’ natural reserve until there was nothing to do but join and stay joined.

Either way, they were in love, so much so that even the most cynical person couldn’t help but see it. She watched them through the window, whispering and giggling to each other behind the purely symbolic cash register.

She sighed. It felt wrong to interrupt them. Violet told herself that was the only reason she didn’t go in right away—hanging back long enough for her husband to catch up with her.

Violet heard Butch long before she saw him, bumbling down the corridor after her like a stampeding animal. He wasn’t exactly light on his feet.

He pulled up short of ramming into her back, but only just.

“Never knew you were a peeping tom.”

“Oh—quiet, you. They’re not even doing anything worth peeping on.” Except worshiping each other with their eyes, and sharing the kind of bond the other under-thirties would probably never get the chance to develop. The happy couple was about to become a museum piece. It was only natural that she should stare.

“You want me to leave you three alone?”

Damn, he’d picked up on her wistfulness even though she was trying not to be so obvious about it. “What do you _want_?”

“To stop you from doing something fuckin’ stupid is what.”

“Butch,” Violet brandished her coupon threateningly, “I already told you—“

“Yeah, whatever, but you don’t have to do that.” Butch flashed his own stack of fluttering pages in her face. “The Grand High Poobah gave us a new ration book.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that?” Violet snapped, forgetting her resolution to keep her temper.

“I _tried_ , hothead.” He thwacked her forehead with the book.

She snatched it from him, glaring, and thumbed through it.

“I didn’t even spend any of it yet. And I already figured out the best way to split it up.” Butch turned on his Pip-Boy and held his arm out to her. Reluctantly, she glanced down. She could just imagine his idea of a fair division of the coupons.

He had divided it into two columns, which was a better start than she was expecting. The first column was labeled, “ME (AWESOME BUTCH)”. A simple animation of exploding fireworks played after his name appeared on the screen. Not a bad piece of programming. The other column was for “BOOBS O’LEARY”.

“O’Leary?” She gave him a dubious look. “Even if that _had_ been my name, it’d be ‘Boobs DeLoria’ now, wouldn’t it?”

Butch laughed, but sobered almost immediately.

“ _Is_ it? Are you taking my name? Are we doing that?”

“Ew, no.” DeLoria was kind of an interesting name, but it belonged to Butch. She didn’t want anything of his that she didn’t _have_ to take.

Great. Now she was thinking about penises again.

“You okay? Lookin’ a little green.”

This time she was the one who burst out laughing. “Sorry—I—I was just—” She couldn’t figure out a way to say what she’d been thinking, but she also couldn’t think of anything else, so she blurted, “Dicks.”

He collapsed against the nearest wall in a fit of laughter that was infectious. She clapped her hands over her mouth, and when his cackling got out of control, spared one to put over his.

“We’re supposed to be mature adults.” It was hard to be firm about that through fingers and giggles, but she tried.

Butch pulled her hand away. “I’m not the one thinking about dicks! Was it any dick in particular? Should I be jealous?”

“Oh my god!” she squeaked, mortified. “No! Just dicks in general!”

“General dicks? Thought all dicks were privates.”

Violet smacked his arm with her free hand. Not just because it made her laugh harder, but because she couldn’t believe something that witty had come out of his mouth. He must’ve used up a whole week’s worth of brain power on a quip like that.

Was this going to be their thing? If they’d been real newlyweds, the kind who were in love with each other, the tension between them would have been sexual. Every push and pull of daily life would shove them toward the nearest sturdy surface to reaffirm their affections. Instead, all their stress coiled up like a spring and released in insults and stupid jokes and friendly swats. Maybe, if they could ever get their sniping under control, that wasn’t so bad. It was a better basis for a partnership than pure loathing.

“Stop making me think about dicks,” Violet said as sternly as she could.

“ _Making_ you? Me? How is it my fault? Wait, you mean it’s not really dicks in general, you’re thinking about _my_ dick?” That made him way too happy.

“And laughing my ass off,” she reminded him. “Don’t get co—er, I mean, don’t let it go to your hea—you know what? Shut up, Butch!”

“Were you about to say…?”

“No.” She opened the door and went in before he could complete the double entendres she’d left hanging. But Butch, the stubborn ass, wouldn’t take a hint.

“Cock!” He deliberately yelled it at the top of his lungs. Tom and Mary both turned to stare.

Violet summoned all her dignity and pretended she hadn’t heard.

“Do you have any vault suits? Preferably sized for an overgrown adolescent?”

“Sure,” Mary said with a flicker of a glance toward Butch. “I think we can help you out.”

* * *

As it turned out, Butch’s distribution of the ration coupons was pretty fair. Almost everything was split right down the middle, with anything in odd amounts alternating which of them got the bigger share. He’d kept all the alcohol coupons for himself, but he’d given her extra rations of luxury foods to make up for it. The hydroponic garden’s products were unlimited, so she’d never have to worry about the basics even if he’d hogged the coupons, but now if she really craved a snack cake, she had the means to get it.

The way he had arranged things, he’d had just enough in this month’s budget for a new vault suit—okay, a refurbished one, but it was guaranteed to last. He’d tucked it under his arm and run straight for the showers.

And then Mary had pulled Violet aside and offered her something for the honeymoon. Refusing had felt more embarrassing than accepting, so now Violet was down a few coupons, too.

Alone in their room, she held up the scrap of silk and lace against her body and wondered. Would Butch like to see her in this? It didn’t leave much to the imagination. But would that make things better, or worse? He might have responded, in the expected fashion, to being pressed to a naked body, but she wasn’t sure what he’d think if she actually tried to be sexy. He’d probably laugh.

Without a mirror, Violet couldn’t tell how she looked in the lingerie, but it felt...weird. Clingy, tight, but not at all in the same way as a vault suit. And so short! She didn’t even feel comfortable exposing her legs, and now here she was in this ridiculous getup. If she raised her arms, it became obscene.

Which was the whole point of wearing it, she reminded herself. So she might as well get comfortable with it. At least the color was nice; red brought a warmth to her complexion that cool Vault-Tec blues never had. On someone paler, it might have been shocking—hell, on her it was shocking if only because she'd never worn red before—but...well, if she could stop blushing about its intended use long enough, she was prepared to feel downright pretty in it.

She was smushing her breasts together to see what she could do about her cleavage, when the door opened. Panic sliced through her.

Butch walked in. He tossed his dirty vault suit in the chair. He looked at her.

He walked back out.

The door closed.

Something stung inside her, something that couldn’t decide if it was hurt feelings or not. Insults she would have been able to handle. Laughter, even. But what the hell was that reaction? Violet grabbed her vault suit. If she took the time to put it on, she’d lose track of him; if she went out without it, she’d die of embarrassment.

She split the difference and shoved one leg in, hopping out into the hall after him. She was just in time to see him disappear around the corner.

“Butch! Wait!”

But he didn’t.

That was...humiliating. Just because she was being a tiny bit silly with her own boobs, suddenly he couldn’t even stand to be near her. If she had caught him jerking off or something, she wouldn’t have…

Well, honestly, she probably _would_ have reacted by running away, but that didn’t mean they shouldn’t try to get used to each other. And each other’s bodies. And...stuff. Or at least talk about it, if it was so awful!

She went after him, trying to summon a confidence that she didn’t feel. Stumbling but still hot on his heels, she pushed into the second leg of her suit and tugged it over her hips. The lingerie was much less scandalous this way—not much more revealing than an undershirt—and she could finally get up some speed.

Violet caught sight of him going into the showers and called to him again. This time, he did look back. He turned ashen at the sight of her and ducked inside anyway. Damn it!

She didn’t hesitate to follow him in. Much. She peeked in to see if anyone else was there first, anyway. Thankfully, they were alone.

The men’s showers were the same as the women’s: a big tiled room with shower heads along all the walls, separated by chest high partitions to offer minimal privacy. A single drain yawned open in the middle of the floor.

Butch had retreated to one of the farthest nooks of the room, still dressed. Violet approached. He put one hand to the side of his face and turned away, effectively blocking her from his sight.

“What’s your problem this time?” she asked. “Do I look that bad?”

“Bad? No! I just don’t want to see that!”

“What, this?”

She threw her arms out, knowing that, the way he was shielding his eyes, he would see the movement and nothing else.

“Stop,” he groaned. “Get out—I need—a shower—go away.”

“You just had a shower,” Violet reminded him.

“So I need another one—” He dropped his hand to glare at her, and...stopped.

This was a mistake. She shouldn’t have come in here. No, she decided, watching his face turn purple and his breathing grow shallow, she shouldn’t have followed him out of the room. She shouldn’t have put on the silly negligee in the first place. She was going to kill him with the power of her bosoms.

He needed another shower. A cold one. Oh god. She hadn’t been thinking, she wanted to say. Oh god! She’d acted out of mortification and hurt pride. “I’m sorry, I...”

Butch reached behind him, attention rapt on her chest, and turned the shower handle.

Ice-cold water gushed over them both. Violet shrieked. She put up her hands to block the torrent from her face, if nothing else. Butch stood rigid, like he didn’t feel the water at all, still staring.

“Butch! Turn it off! I’m _wet_!”

“Wet,” Butch echoed faintly. He gulped and made no move to turn off the water. Violet reached past him to do it herself.

So of course she was standing there with her arms around him when the door opened and somebody walked in.

“Every-fuckin’-where I go, you two are doing it!”

It was Wally. Of course. Why wouldn’t he walk in on her at a time like this? His voice threw her into a panic, and, forgetting her truce with Butch, she scrambled to get away from both of them.

But the shower was still dribbling, and she slipped in the water and fell, hard, splaying her legs in opposite directions and cracking her head against the wall.

“Ooh, baby, spreadin’ your legs for me already?” Wally jeered. “I didn’t know you were so easy.”

“That’s my wife you’re talking about,” Butch said sharply. He took a step forward, putting himself between Wally and Violet as she lurched back to her feet with the aid of the wall.

“Yeah, so what of it? What, do you _li-i-ike_ her now?” Wally made a few kissing noises that were somehow even more disgusting than the ones Butch had made in the diner.

“Oh, come off it, Wally. All these years, I never made a move on your sister, did I? You said she was off limits, and I respected that. Now you show me the same respect.” He didn’t have to say _or else_.

Wally’s eyes raked down Violet’s body in a way that felt like he’d put his hands all over her. Shuddering, she folded her arms around herself to cover as much as she could.

“Yeah, fine,” Wally said with a sullen sneer. “This one’s no prize. I can wait.”

Violet’s temper flared. Not at the insult to herself, but at the way it implied Amata was _worth_ y of his attack. Like it was attention that she deserved and Violet didn’t, something to be jealous of. Ooh, she’d wring his stupid neck on their wedding night. Or maybe smother him with a pillow in his sleep. No jury in the world would convict her, though the Overseer might.

“Good.” Butch put an arm around her, still keeping himself between the two of him. “Come on, Nosebleed, let’s get out of here.”

She let him lead her to the door, because what else was she going to do, stay with Wally? She might get a few punches in, but she’d come out the worse for it. And she let Butch keep his arm around her because she didn’t feel like walking unaided, shaky as she was.

She didn’t expect him to keep holding onto her once they were out of sight, but he didn’t let go until they were back in their room. Then he dumped her across the bed with a goofy chuckle.

“That was pretty funny when you fell back there.”

“You creep!”

“What, did you hurt yourself or something?”

“Oh, just go away.” She wanted to burrow under the blankets and hide. Maybe if she went to sleep, everything would look better in the morning.

“You’re really scared of Wally, huh?” Butch asked. “Hey, don’t worry about him. If he tries anything on you, I’ll feed him a knuckle sandwich.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“ _No_ , not for you _._ ” He looked appalled. “I’m the leader of the gang, remember? If he pushes me, I gotta push back.” He laughed again. “For _you_. Like you’re my girlfriend of somethin’.”

“’Or somethin,’” she bit out. Like she wasn’t his wife already? “You dickhead. If you’re not going to leave, can you at least hand me a dry vault suit? I’m freezing.”

His eyes dipped to her chest and had a hard time dragging themselves up again. “I can tell. I mean—I’m going. I’m leaving now. I need—to—be alone for a few minutes. You put some clothes on. It ain’t polite to point.”

Violet looked down at herself. The lingerie had been rendered _completely_ transparent by the water. She let out a startled yelp and put her hands over her breasts.

Butch reached back to fumble for the door control without looking away from her body, even though there was nothing left for him to see.

“Need a hand?” she asked after he’d slapped the same empty piece of wall three times.

“I think you’re using both of yours.”

“You—” She huffed and drew herself up with all the bravado she could muster. “You are acting so childish! It’s not like you haven’t seen these already.”

“In the dark! Not all—“ Butch gestured vaguely, like he was scared of pointing out anything in particular. “All—“

“What?”

“That! Silky and wet!” He whined, low in his throat, with obvious embarrassment. “I _got_ _ta_ get out of here.”

She gasped. “Butch, I forbid you to—to _pleasure yourself_ while thinking about me!”

“Okay, so I won’t think about you!” He squeezed his eyes shut and slapped at the wall, still feeling blindly for the door switch. It hadn’t occurred to him that he could _turn around_ so it’d be safe to look for it. “Damn it— _damn it_ —” He kept groping for the switch, and only took himself farther away from it.

“Butch...”

“I’m not thinking about you, I’m thinking about Vera Keyes.”

“Vera Keyes, the actress?”

“No, Vera Keyes, the salad dressing. Will you shut up?”

“The switch is to your left,” she said. “No, your _other_ left. You could open your eyes, you know. Come on, I’m not bouncing up and down or anything.”

Butch groaned, fell back and slid down the wall.

“Oh my god! Stop! Okay? I’ll change. Don’t look.” Violet peeled the wet vault suit off her legs. The lingerie flopped wetly on the floor after it.

Even though his eyes were closed, he flinched and turned red.

“You’re _naked_ ,” Butch accused.

“Yeah, but you can’t see it.”

“I can _hear_ it.” And didn’t he sound miserable about it, too.

“Don’t worry, I won’t try this again,” she muttered.

“Try what?” His head jerked up, but his eyes stayed shut. “What did you try?”

“I only dressed up in this stupid thing for _your_ benefit.”

“What?” His eyes flew open for a split second before she flung his old, broken-zippered vault suit in his face. By the time he pulled it off, she was holding up the blanket to cover herself, struggling into her spare suit one-handed behind it.

“Change,” she said. “You’re wet, too.”

“You wore _that_ —you—you _wanted_ me to see you—”

“Mary said you’d like it. I thought it would help.”

Butch let himself slide down more, until he was lying flat on the floor, staring up at the fluorescent lights.

“Jesus, Violet. Give a guy some warning first, will ya?”

“Ha! Right. Consider yourself warned: you’re never going to see me in it again.” Violet zipped her suit, dropped the blanket and bent over to pick up the offending garment. What a shame she’d wasted ration coupons on it. At least she could trade it back for half as many as she’d spent.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Butch propped himself up on one elbow to smirk at her. “All I have to do is close my eyes.” Which he did. “ _Ooh, Butch_ ,” he added in falsetto, “I wore this just for _you_.”

“Jackass!” She threw a pillow at him. “You are still forbidden to—”

“Pleasure myself and think of you? Don’t worry. Thinking about you is never a pleasure.”

“I can’t believe you’re trying to spin this. Didn’t you _just_ need a cold shower? Did I imagine that?” She shook the nightie out, opened the top dresser drawer and hung it on the corners to dry.

“I’ll go when Wally’s done,” he mumbled.

“Oh, _ew_!”

“I meant showering, you perv. But he’s probably doing the other thing too.”

“Ew, ew, stop! You’re going to make me sick!”

“What? Guys do that. A lot.”

“So do girls, but I don’t want to think about _him_ —”

“You do?” he asked.

“Um...”

“A _lot_?”

“That, uh, that depends on the girl, I guess.”

Butch curled forward suddenly, using his knees to block her view of his crotch.

“Okay Nosebleed, it’s been nice talkin’ to ya but I guess I’d better be going now, like _right now_ so I’ll see you around.” He staggered to his feet and found the door controls with no trouble.

“Have fun with Vera,” she said.

* * *

Butch made himself scarce for the rest of the evening. Violet tried not to think about what he might have been doing and stayed busy; she ate dinner, tidied the room and unpacked the rest of her belongings. She even folded her socks, now that she wasn’t in such a hurry.

The last touch: the box that held her mother’s necklace, laid reverently on the bedside table. It’d make the perfect place to store her wedding band. Even if she didn’t like a place for everything and everything in its place, sleeping in the ribbon these last few nights had been flirting with disaster. Eventually, Butch would snag it in his sleep and strangle her to death.

Curfew rolled around and found Violet stretched out on the bed with a book. She didn’t look up from it when Butch walked in, ten seconds ahead of the warning chime.

“You set a curfew alarm?” he asked.

“I like to feel organized.”

He didn’t even call her a nerd.

Violet glanced up at him long enough to see that he’d put his old vault suit back on, though it looked fresher than it’d been a few hours ago. Maybe he’d rinsed it out and had Andy bake it dry or something. His new suit, still damp, was slung over his shoulder.

She went back to her book.

He spread his new vault suit over the back of the chair to dry, then he took off his boots, setting them down precisely at its side. His socks followed, neatly folded and laid just so across the tops of the boots. She didn’t mean to watch him, but she couldn’t help seeing him out of the corner of her eye. The words on the page became meaningless fragments as her heart started to race. She couldn’t even remember what story she was reading.

“Are you coming to bed?” she asked, trying to sound breezy. It came out strained. And it was only half because of his stinky feet.

“You surprised?” With comically widened eyes, he looked around the room. “Why, is there something else to do in here?”

“You could pick up a book.” She sat up and dangled hers at him.

“Pfft.” He dropped into the chair and threw his legs over one of the arms. Ugh! And he started to pick lint out from between his toes. “Next time I want to die of boredom, maybe. Soon as I’m done with this, I’m comin’ to bed.”

“To sleep?”

“Nah,” he said, still picking away.

Oh. Well, that was that, then. It was for the best anyway. She’d have a medical examination any day now; she had no idea when exactly. But the Overseer would be quite perturbed if there weren’t—ew—Butch goo somewhere inside her. Better make sure she was prepared for the worst pop quiz ever.

She set the book aside and straightened her spine, all business. Stiff upper lip and all like that. “All right. Whenever you’re ready, let’s get this out of the way.”

Butch didn’t look up. He was too busy twisting his found toe lint into little balls. “Get what out of the way?”

She grimaced when he flicked one of them across the room. Boys were so disgusting. Or maybe it was just him. “Sexual intercourse? Ring any bells?”

“What, again?” Butch whined. Whined? But didn’t he want to…? “We just did it like, two days ago.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Violet said, as calmly as she could. She couldn’t have psyched herself up for nothing.

“So, can’t we just...not?”

“Sure, we _could_ , but we’ll never add to the population that way.” She patted the bed next to her, trying to look inviting, since she doubted she could pull off seductive. “As soon as this takes, we never have to touch each other again. They might even let us have separate rooms.”

“Oh. Eh, living together’s not that bad.” But he came and sat down next to her, keeping a perfect two inches of space between them.

They both sat, fully dressed, staring straight ahead.

“Want me to put that red thing back on?” she asked, nodding at the dresser where the lingerie hung.

“ _No_!” His gulp echoed in the bare room. “We don’t talk about the red thing.”

“Okay, then I guess we should...” She peeked at him. He looked faintly nauseated. That was a good beginning. “Should I get the lights?” she asked.

“If you want. Or I can.” He didn’t move.

“Want to leave them on?” She didn’t. Red thing notwithstanding, she still wasn’t comfortable having him looking at her. But anything that made either of them feel more interested was bound to make it all work a little better, right?

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, so she didn’t get up.

They should probably take their clothes off. Well, one step at a time.

Gathering her courage, she rolled over to straddle him. He flinched back, and she wavered, up on her knees, hands in the air like she was about to do a magic trick. The worst magic trick of all time. Except for his hipbones just brushing the inside of her knees, they still weren’t touching.

“Do I need to stop?” she asked. Little choice as either of them had in the matter, they did need to be able to say no to each other in moments like this, if nothing else. She needed that, and if it was going to work, it had to go both ways.

“Do you?” he echoed. “I thought you’d need to...heal? You were bleeding a lot. A _lot_.”

“Did that bother you?” She couldn’t believe it. He was _Butch_. What problem could he have with a little blood on the sheets?

“Hey, don’t take this the wrong way or nothin’, but I don’t want to hurt you. In bed. Like that.” He cleared his throat, avoiding looking at her. “I don’t mean _you_ , like you’re special or something.”

“I get it,” she assured him before he could start babbling. And then, because she couldn’t resist poking at him when she had the opportunity, she told him, “In old-timey days, newlyweds used to hang their bloody sheets out the window as proof that the bride was a virgin on her wedding night.”

“Gross!” He hesitated, looking thoughtful. “Does that mean...” He lowered his voice, as if there were any possibility of their being overheard. “Do virgins always bleed?”

“People used to think so, but actually it was more that men had literally no idea that there was an endgame for the woman too, so they didn’t bother with a whole lot of foreplay. I’ve read that it doesn’t hurt at all, not even the first time, if you’re sufficiently prepared.”

“Oh.” His face fell as he grasped the implication that her painful experience was due to his own failure as a partner.

“Hey,” she said weakly, and couldn’t think of anything to follow up with. She didn’t want to make him feel bad about it, but God, it had been awful. “Um...Practice makes perfect, right?”

“Practice. Great.”

Tired of hovering over him, Violet let her weight settle on his lap. Butch drew in a sharp breath and squirmed back to set her at a more comfortable distance.

“I’m sure we can both do better,” she said.

“Um—ahem—Okay, so we’re doing this?”

“If you’re up for it.”

That made him _blush_ , but he just muttered, “Practice makes perfect,” with a shrug.

She leaned forward to kiss him, hoping it would feel more natural if she initiated the action. She didn’t feel their teeth knocking together, at least. Or much of anything else. His mouth felt weirdly cold, and neither of them was willing to part their lips, even slightly.

This wouldn’t do. She moved a hand to the back of his head, hoping to find a better angle. He jerked his head away, patting a few stray hairs back into place.

“Hey, quit it.”

“Are you serious, Butch? What’s the big deal if your hair gets messed up?” For the sake of honesty, she was forced to admit, “I _like_ it messy.”

“You—you do?”

“Don’t act surprised. There are _some_ things I like about you.”

“Oh, yeah?” He frowned, suspicious. “Like what?”

“Let’s start with the way you never, ever believe that I’m being sincere.”

“You never are!”

“Almost never,” she agreed. “Let’s see, what else? I like this.” She traced a finger lightly over the curve of his upper lip. “When you’re being a smart-ass, one corner of your mouth turns up, and you look...let’s say very self-assured.”

“Uh—heh—okay.” Looking not the least bit self-assured, he hunched forward, putting some more space between her and his crotch. Interesting.

She reached for him again, and this time he moved with her, unconcerned with his hair, or at least less concerned.

The kiss was better. They were both approaching the situation with more determination than either enthusiasm or skill, but at least she didn’t feel like she was making out with—if her mental image of the thing was at all accurate—a beached trout.

“Okay, you can mess up my hair for that,” Butch said when they broke for air.

“Thanks for the permission.” She flicked her fingers through it, just to test the boundaries of his patience. He frowned, but didn’t stop her.

“So, now what?” he asked, trying and failing to seem indifferent to her response.

“I suppose that wasn’t terrible. Maybe we should quit while we’re ahead.”

“Oh,” he said, clearly stricken. “Yeah, no, I was thinking the same thing, obviously. We should stop. This is lame. B-but—I need to, um, I have to go...”

“Take a cold shower?” she suggested. “That’d be three today, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, fuck you!”

“Is that what you want? To—” she couldn’t say the word without stammering, but her silence was loaded with it, “—me?

A deep red flush swept across his face, so bright and so sudden that she actually pictured cartoon steam shooting out of his ears.

“Are you just jerking me around, or what?” he asked breathlessly. “Because if you are...”

“I’m not. I’m ready when you are.” That was probably overstating it, but she thought if she didn’t try to force it this time, she might be okay.

Besides, it was easy to feel confident with Butch panting at her and looking like he was about to faint. The human reproductive system, she decided, was just plain silly. Especially on his end.

She reached for her zipper. He took that as a sign to move, and made a grab for his own. And got it maybe a quarter of the way down before it stuck. She burst out laughing.

“I _told_ you you needed a new vault suit!”

“Yeah, great. It must be nice to know everything.” He yanked at his zipper again, to no effect.

“Want help?” Violet asked.

“No!” He pulled with both hands, going red in the face, until she heard a couple of stitches pop. It took some serious abuse to do that to a vault suit.

“Butch, you stubborn ass, let me help!”

“No,” he repeated.

Violet sighed. If he didn’t want her help, she didn’t know why she was bothering to offer. She had made the effort to do their duty for the night. Now it was out of her hands. She should just accept the reprieve, and go to sleep.

But well, her actions had the intended effect, she thought, looking down at the unmistakable evidence. She couldn’t leave him in that condition. Not when she had the opportunity to make it worse.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to help?” She shifted her weight forward in a way that was sure to bring to mind the other activities they could be engaging in. And it did, she could see that as clearly as if an Entertainotron were playing a filmstrip across his face. _Not_ one out of the Vault-Tec-approved library, she was sure.

“You never acted like this before,” he said, voice strained. He had entirely forgot to mess with his zipper.

“Do you mind?” Violet asked, seriously—ready to call it quits if she had to.

“No—I dunno,” he stammered. “I kinda got used to the little nosebleed, I guess.”

“Somebody you could push around—“ She wriggled experimentally, just enough to make his eyes lose focus. “—who couldn’t push back, you mean.”

“You better knock it off,” he warned, in a voice that cracked. But his hands went to her hips to settle there.

If she didn’t think about the sex part, having this kind of power was kind of fun. “Or else what?”

His eyes darkened. The smirk she admitted to liking put in an appearance. “Or else this.”

Butch’s fingertips dug into her hips, hard enough to bruise through her clothes. He tugged her forward, lifted his hips—

And threw her off.

Violet flailed and skidded across the bedside table, knocking everything off it. Something _crunched_ under her when she landed, shoulder-first, on the floor. Something that wasn’t a broken bone.

“Butch!” she wailed. Not because he’d started to laugh at her. Not because he’d morphed back into her bully, just when she’d finally gotten something to hold over him. None of that mattered.

“Okay, so, that was dumb,” he said, still laughing at her scrambling. “You don’t throw a girl out of bed when she’s ready to bang. But the look on your face!”

Violet peeled herself off the floor, hoping against hope that she had just crushed the cardboard of the jewelry box.

But, no. She pulled the lid off and looked inside. No such luck. There in the tissue paper were six jagged pieces of purple glass with the remnants of a floral design still discernible on the biggest. Smaller shards radiated outward from the point of impact, too many and too delicate for her to collect. Her mother’s necklace was smashed beyond repair.

She stood up and punched Butch in the arm before he knew what was coming.

“You _asshole_ , I hate you!” She punched him again. And again. And one more time. By the time she reared back for a fifth blow, she was in tears.

“Hey—HEY!” He got off the bed and put his hands up to defend himself, but didn’t do more than block her. “What the hell? It was just a joke!”

But she’d become a flurry of ineffective fists and heartbroken sobs, unable to make proper words. “Hate” was in there somewhere, maybe a “jerk” and “asshole” or two, but nothing that made much sense.

“Would you cool it?!” Butch got fed up and shoved her. She landed flat on her ass, clutching the flattened box to her chest. He finally seemed to notice it. “That’s what you’re upset about? It’s just a fuckin’ box!”

Violet wheezed. Her knuckles would be bruised tomorrow, and she’d never been so angry at him in her whole life. “It was my mother’s!”

She couldn’t see his face clearly though her tears. She hoped he was bleeding. She hoped she’d broken his nose. She hoped he’d drop dead from shame.

“Oh.” He didn’t sound bloody or broken. He did sound ashamed.

“I hate you,” she said again. Harder, this time. Colder.

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.” He was trying to sound tough, but there was a thread of something else underneath, something that might have led him to an apology if he were a decent human being.

She got up. Butch scuttled sideways, to get out of range in case she wanted to hit him again. But she walked past him without a word.

“Okay, so you’re mad, I get it, but if you hadn’t been fooling around, I wouldn’t have...” he trailed off, probably realizing that blaming her for this was not the way to win forgiveness.

Still in perfect silence, she stabbed at the door control to signal to whoever was standing guard outside. If she was uncharacteristically lucky, they would actually open the door and let her out.

“Oh, come on, you twerp,” Butch whined. “How are we supposed to have a fight if you won’t even talk to me?”

She hooked a thumb through the ribbon around her neck, pulled it up over her head, and threw it and the wedding ring at his feet, all without looking in his direction.

“Hey!”

The door opened. Thank goodness. They had Officer Gomez tonight.

He took one look at her face, streaked with wetness, and then looked over her shoulder at Butch. “Violet?”

“Officer Gomez, I can’t sleep here tonight.”

He frowned. “It’s after seven. You know you’re not allowed to leave. Overseer’s orders.”

Violet gathered her courage and squared her shoulders. “Then I apologize.”

“For?”

She took a swing at him. He blocked her easily and she didn’t put any power behind it, but that wasn’t the point. Attacking a security officer meant a write-up and a night in custody. They both knew it.

“Violet,“ Gomez warned.

Her fist went up again.

He sighed, snatched her hand in mid-air and placed it gently at her side. “Bad as that?”

Violet nodded and tried to stop her lip from quivering.

“Bad enough that a night in jail is better?”

This time, she jerked her head once.

Officer Gomez rubbed the back of his neck, muttered something about it being good he couldn’t get fired, and said with a sigh, “All right, kiddo. I guess you’re under arrest.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s development, in brief:
> 
> 4,000 words: Okay! Now we’re going places!  
> 8,000: I can work with this. I just need a good place to stop.  
> 22,000: end my suffering
> 
> To compensate, what was supposed to be a single chapter is being split up a bit. More soon!
> 
>  **Note:** This chapter contains plot points that may be triggering or squicky for some readers. However, as the content advisories are quite spoilery, please see the end notes for details.

The holding cell mattress was hard, and cold, and perfectly fine for sobbing herself to sleep on. When the cell door opened, she collapsed on it in a soggy heap and curled up on her side.

“I’m going to need the box, Violet.” With gentle hands, Officer Gomez tried to dislodge the squashed cardboard from her grasp. The iron bands of her fingers wouldn’t budge. “Violet...”

She managed a breathless, quivering shake of her head. Words were too hard. There was a knot in her throat, taking up all the breathing space; she wasn’t sure she’d get sound past it ever again.

Officer Gomez sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and looked around at the holding cell like he was weighing the odds it would tell on him. At last, helplessly, he patted her shoulder. “All right, you can keep it.”

Violet nodded with what she hoped was visible gratitude, and drew her knees up to her chest. She held the box like it was the only thing that rooted her to the earth, barely noticing when the door shut behind him.

Once she found herself alone, what little self-control she had vanished. Her sobs increased in number and volume, until she hiccuped and shook and couldn’t breathe through her nose.

Grief dug an aching pit inside her and spiraled, bottomless. Her mother had left other things behind when she died, but they were the fragments and echoes of her life, not intended for her daughter. The necklace was an heirloom _meant_ for Violet. Catherine had once held it, and looked at it, and thought about her. It was the only tangible connection to her mother’s love that she had—a connection now severed.

And it didn’t even get any fanfare, or serve a purpose. It wasn’t destroyed in a meaningful way, or sacrificed for a greater good, or something she gave up when she was ready. It followed no literary conventions and fit nowhere in her hero’s journey.

Butch had just...Butched, with the forethought of tossing a paper airplane or a spitball. Something precious survived centuries past the end of the world only to become a casualty of his childishness. There was nothing like it now, in a place that valued cold efficiency over beauty. There could never be anything like it again, in a world without the means to make it. For all she knew, it was the last object of its kind anywhere on the planet.

Its loss was random and horrible and it fucking _hurt_. Worst of all, Butch wasn’t even sorry.

Violet cried until she had nothing left, then a little beyond that point, and finally, exhausted, let sleep take her.

* * *

In the morning, she woke to gritty eyes and a stuffy nose and a mouth dry from sleeping with it hanging open. There was still a cavernous hole inside her, but at least the borders weren’t quite so raw.

She found the box where she’d fallen asleep with it and carefully removed the lid. Still broken, still impossible to repair, but in the cold light of day, she could acknowledge that she’d been pretty lucky to have something so delicate for as long as she had. And with last night’s sudden, drowning grief out of the way, she could think more rationally about it.

Violet still had other things of her mother’s, and her dad made sure she knew she’d been loved. But she still hated that Butch had turned on her—thoughtlessly! Just for a laugh!—right when she’d started to trust him, and that this was the end result. She especially hated that he didn’t even have the decency to apologize for what he’d done. A familiar prickle started behind her eyelids, but she willed it away.

God, but she was tired of tears. Tired of being on the verge of them, and picking up the pieces after them, and other people shedding them. The novelty had officially worn off. If she didn’t find a new release valve for all the stress soon, she might drop dead to avoid another crying jag.

Getting drunk and setting fire to the Overseer’s office had helped. Maybe she should try that again.

But that line of thinking led straight to Butch, and damn it, _no_. The wound inside her burst its fragile seams and Violet sat up, clutching the edge of the mattress. The thought of his dopey face in a positive context refreshed her anger and hurt. Disappointment, too: in him for being him, and in herself for believing he might ever be anything else.

He would always push her and shove her and hurt her only to complain when there were consequences. She would always want to be the bigger person and fail at it and push back only to end up flat on her ass for her troubles.

Why did she even bother? It only caused her grief. Butch wouldn’t change, not really. Probably neither of them even could. And if—if!—such a miracle came to pass, their history was impossible to overcome as anything close to friends. The sooner she accepted that, the better.

Their partnership started out on life support, showing signs of improvement but far from healthy. Now it had flatlined. The Overseer wouldn’t care, of course. He’d still insist they mash bits of their anatomy together to make babies for his amusement. But demanding she play incubator didn’t mean she owed him anything more. She would do her duty to help repopulate the vault, because the fate of the human race might depend on it, but beyond that?

No. Fuck it. She was through putting in the effort to make her “marriage” more than a Vault-Tec approved Baby-O-Matic.

From now on, life with Butch needed to be mechanical, detached in every respect. It was the only way to minimize the damage he’d do. If she couldn’t trust him not to be clumsy with her feelings (and she couldn’t) denying him access to them was the only recourse.

She’d tried her damnedest to care about him, or at least to suck it up instead of indulging her worst instincts. That lasted six whole days. Well, now it was time to try not giving a shit. Maybe she could squeeze at least a week out of that.

On the other side of the holding cell glass, sudden movement caught her eye. She had enough time to scrub her hands over her face and rearrange her expression into something less dour before the door slid open.

“I’m off in about twenty minutes.” Officer Gomez leaned against the door frame. “Feeling any better?”

Since the answer lay in the complicated space between ‘yes, sort of’ and ‘no, not at all,’ she settled on a shrug. With a measured breath through his nose and a nod, he accepted that.

“Had a busy night myself, you know. Lots of paperwork to catch up on.”

Violet squinted at him, confused by the non-sequitur. “Okay?”

“Didn’t really have time to write you up, is what I’m saying.” He cleared his throat and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “It’s my strong recommendation that you beat it before somebody with more time on their hands comes along.”

He was letting her go? Even if she didn’t put much heart into it, she’d tried to punch him! That didn’t deserve lenience! “But—”

“Violet.” Officer Gomez gave her a penetrating look. “You needed a night to cool off. You got it. You _don’t_ need a write-up. Things have been tough on you kids lately. I might be surprised you’re the first one to take a swing at me, but I’m not exactly shocked _someone_ did.”

She found that admission comforting, like a warm blanket thrown over her in a cold room. It did nothing for the trace of guilt that nagged her, the ingrained sense she’d done something wrong and deserved punishment, but still.

At least one of the adults didn’t downplay the harm the Overseer’s plans caused. At least _somebody_ expected them to act out instead of just lying back and thinking of Vault-Tec. Even her father, as supportive as he was, hadn’t done that much. Something like resentment tried to flare inside her at that thought, but she snuffed it.

Officer Gomez stepped out of the way and waved her on. “Now, like I said?” 

Violet did as she was told.

* * *

After a pit stop, she went back to the room. Violet poked her head in and found it empty, with only hints of Butch’s presence left behind.

The blankets lay crumpled up in the chair like he’d decided to curl up there instead of the bed. The pillows, meanwhile, looked like they’d been punched within an inch of their lives but not slept on.

She half expected to see her belongings strewn across the floor, covered in boot prints where he’d stomped on them, but bafflingly, they'd been tidied. Her books, including those she’d lent to Butch, sat lined up on top of the dresser. In alphabetical order, no less. Granted, _The Stars My Destination_ sat filed under “T” for _**The**_ _Stars My Destination_ , but still. Until now, she hadn’t even been sure Butch knew the whole alphabet.

Either he felt guilty, or else with nothing to punch and nobody to talk to, he'd needed something to do all night.

She straightened up. Whichever it was, she didn’t care. Butch’s feelings and motives were no longer her concern. Could she concede the room was nicer this morning? Sure. But at least half of that was because Butch wasn’t in it.

If only they didn’t have curfew, she reflected as she busied herself with retrieving a change of clothes. Butch wasn’t a complete slob, so she could stand to share a space with him if she didn’t have to see him. Without the curfew in place, they could have scheduled opposite work shifts. They’d never even have to look at each other, except during their prescribed bouts of horrible sex. Hell, once they got the hang of inserting tab A into slot B, she could even keep her eyes shut for that.

Violet pulled on the clean vault suit, thinking hard. She could always beg the Overseer to lift the curfew, or at least relax it so that she could work super late and come home to a comatose husband. If she groveled and swore undying loyalty, he might consider it. He did love a good grovel. He loved undying loyalty even more. And he might even believe that wedded "bliss" with Butch had broken her pride already.

She zipped her suit and admitted to herself that was wishful thinking. The Overseer probably wouldn't go for it, not even if she asked on her hands and knees. She might have better luck if she begged her father to extend her clinic shifts, _then_ went to the Overseer.

Once Violet finished dressing, she took the opportunity to make the bed. Butch’s lumpy punching bags turned back into pillows after a good fluffing; the wrinkles fell out of the top sheet with a gentle shake.

When she moved to untangle the blanket, something heavy tumbled out of the folds and plopped on the floor.

Her hardcover copy of _The Black Jacket Mystery_ stared up at her. The one she’d tossed in her school bag when temporary insanity gripped her and she wanted to be nice to Butch. She’d been so preoccupied with what he’d make of _Moby Dick,_ she didn't register that she'd grabbed the only mystery she owned with a boy on the cover. A boy in a leather jacket, with a switchblade and stupid hair. It certainly didn’t occur to her that he might _care_.

After dispensing with the blanket, she bent to pick it up.

To her dismay, some of the pages had been dog-eared. _Someone_ didn't know what a damn bookmark was. She could only assume that Butch had been sneak-reading when she wasn’t looking, marking his place and coming back to continue whenever he was alone. She should have known his insistence that books were for nerdy losers was nothing more than macho posturing. Typical Butch, pretending his own "Rules of Cool" didn’t apply to him.

Ugh, he was so obnoxious.

She un-bent the corners of each page, smoothing out the creases as best she could, but the book was so old, the paper so brittle, that some of them simply snapped off under her fingertips. Another thing of hers he’d Butched.

She marked the last dog-eared page for him with an actual bookmark, although she wasn’t sure why it mattered if he lost his place. Maybe she was just being passive-aggressive. With that done, she returned it to the shelf with the others, careful to put it under T, right before _The Broken Bubble_ so that Butch could find it again.

Wait. She frowned. Why was she being considerate? She swept all the titles he’d misfiled out of the line and shifted them around to the right places. _The Moon is a Harsh Mistress_ and _The Clue of the Tapping Heels_ went to opposite ends of the shelf where they damn well belonged, and _The Black Jacket Mystery_ found its proper slot right after _Black Amazon of Mars_. _The Illustrated Man_ walked over to find its home beside _I, Libertine,_ and all three books of the _Solar Queen_ series found their way back to each other, with no lengthy “The” section separating them _._ That was how you organized books, _Butch_.

Now she knew she was being passive-aggressive, but she couldn’t help herself. Passive-aggression, while more emotional than she would have liked, at least offered more dignity than consideration. Besides, these were her things. If they were going to be organized, it had to be done right.

She doubted Butch would even notice, or care. He was probably only reading out of desperation. If the curfew ever lifted, he'd be free to roam around doing whatever usually kept him entertained, and her books would be safe from careless _page-folders_.

On the other hand…

Violet glanced at the bookmark she’d placed, sticking up between the pages like a planted flag. From its position, she gathered he’d almost finished _The Black Jacket Mystery_. It was a kids’ book, not exactly heavy literature, but getting all the way through it was still more dedication than she would ever expect him to show.

Maybe he liked it? She considered the book’s spine and tried to remind herself whether he did or didn’t was no longer her concern. If she felt curious about his feelings, it meant she cared, and she was supposed to be done with that nonsense.

Violet finished shuffling the other volumes neatly into the row, ignoring the sinking feeling of giving a damn. So what if he did like her book? There was no way she wanted to talk to him about it. And if he had any thoughts on the story, they couldn’t be very interesting. He was Butch. The Overseer would declare himself an anarchist before Butch had meaningful literary analysis to share. She must be really hard up for something new in the vault if she’d started entertaining notions of a book discussion with _him_.

Still. She glanced toward _The Black Jacket Mystery_ again. Even Amata hadn’t liked it when she read it.

Oh, damn it, it was no use. She wanted to know what he thought. Damn it!

Violet braced her hands on the dresser and hung her head. She’d had self-respect once. Where’d it go? What had it felt like? Less than a week living with Butch and she couldn’t remember anymore. She missed the old Violet. The one who could hold a grudge for months at a time, not this newer, weepier version who had so much else to worry about she barely managed to hang on for a few hours.

Was that normal? Was _any_ of this normal? The emotional highs and lows and inside outs that kept melting the world as she knew it into new shapes? Or, to be fairer, was this as close to normal she could expect in their situation?

Her eyes sought her little library for help. She’d always found something useful there when she needed it most, but what could it offer now? There was no _Nancy Drew and the Arranged Marriage_ to serve as a blueprint for how she should act and feel. No romantic heroine or space queen or girl detective ever faced off against _The Overbearing Overseer’s Dastardly Breeding_ _Plot_. There wasn’t even a short Vault-Tec manual to give the usual woefully inadequate overview. Or if there was, the Overseer didn’t share it.

This was all uncharted territory, meant for some other pioneer to map. For all that she had craved something new in an otherwise static existence, _this wasn’t what she meant._

On spiteful impulse, she snatched _The Black Jacket Mystery_ off the shelf, and shoved it sideways behind the other books. Now she didn’t have to worry about what Butch thought or didn’t think, or how she felt or didn’t feel. Out of sight, out of mind.

Violet headed for the door and stepped out. She only got ten feet past their room before she heard it.

Butch’s laugh racketed down the hallway like silverware thrown down a flight of stairs. Violet winced. Was this the part of their song and dance where Butch did something endearing and she stopped hating him for five minutes? Or were they going to skip ahead to the part where he pissed away all her good will?

Pressing herself against the wall, Violet peeked around the corner to make sure he wasn’t going to spot her and come running. At a glance, there seemed little danger of that. He was preoccupied with the Tunnel Snakes.

Butch and Paul were doubled over with laughter, holding onto each other for balance as they cackled and snorted and wheezed, hysterical almost to the point of tears. Wally stood distinctly apart from them, looking grumpy, though he still wore the gang’s jacket. There was something mutinous to his sour, slanted mouth and flinty, glaring eyes. She got the impression he was there more out of tradition than anything else, like he’d been demoted. Had Butch put him on notice? Threatened to throw him out of the Snakes if he didn’t shape up? She couldn’t tell just looking at him, obviously, but something was different.

The cackles started to die down and she caught a snatch of conversation about the apartment. Butch peeled off from the others. Oh, he was heading her way! Violet jerked back out of sight, heart hammering. She’d never make it all the way to the other end of the hallway before he rounded the corner. He would catch her and realize she’d been watching them.

As quick and as quiet as she could, she sprinted to their door and ducked into the room. Shit! She needed something to do! Something to make it look like she was busy! But the room was bare and the bed was made and she was running out of time. Without any better ideas, she dashed to the books and pretended like she hadn’t already finished re-organizing them.

The overpowering aroma of Butch’s aftershave entered the room a full five seconds before he did. It seeped through the vault door seals like they weren’t even there.

“Oh, shit,” he said when the door opened and he saw her.

She could have snapped at him; she definitely had the urge. Something sarcastic, like “Nice to see you, too, Jackhole.” Instead, she starched her spine, straightened her shoulders, and ignored him. Talking to him was more consideration—more effort—than she intended to waste from now on. Besides, with her heart still trying to burst out of her chest, she didn’t trust her voice.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. When she didn't answer right away, he muttered in an aside to himself, “Right, you live here.”

She rolled her eyes at him, because that seemed like about as much exertion as the situation warranted, and went back to her task.

“I...forgot my cigarettes,” he explained inanely to her back, which was _such_ an obvious fib. He’d been without them since the curfew policy began; if he ‘forgot’ them this morning, that meant he had them last night when she knew he didn’t. You’d think a career delinquent would be a better liar.

Violet opened the top drawer and rifled around inside, pretending to look for something.

“You gonna talk to me or what?”

She glared at him from the corner of her eye, without turning around. Did he recoil? She couldn’t be sure from this angle, but the thought that he might have was supremely satisfying.

“C’mon, Nosebleed...” He came within an arm’s length and reached out to her. When his hand found her shoulder, she shrugged him off. There was something telling about the way none of his overtures, last night or this morning, included an honest apology or even _her actual name_.

To put some distance between them, Violet pulled a pair of socks out of the drawer and went over to the chair to put them on. Sensibly, he didn’t follow. Butch drifted to where she’d been standing in front of the dresser, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey, you moved shit. Where’s my book?”

“ _Your_ book?” She bristled and the words popped free before her brain gave her mouth the all clear. Damn it!

“Yeah, _my_ book.” The statement held a note of annoyance, but he turned enough to look at her with a half-smirk. He was pleased she’d finally acknowledged him. “I was readin’ it, you loaned it to me, it’s mine until I give it back. So where is it?”

She untied one boot, then the other. “Have you tried looking under D for Dickhead?”

“Have _you_ tried looking under H for Heinous Bitch?”

“Are you sure it’s not under _T_ for _The_ Heinous Bitch?” Why was she engaging with him? And why couldn’t she stop?! Fucking Butch, knowing where all her buttons were from a lifetime of mashing them.

“Yeah!” His face split in a sudden, infuriating grin. “Grammar insults. That’ll show me!”

He was baiting her? Oh, so he couldn’t stand the silent treatment and was hellbent on bullying her out of it. The realization renewed her determination to be frosty to him. Maybe she didn’t have the impulse control to stop talking to him entirely, but she could manage that much. Violet took a breath and forced calmness to drop over her features like a mask.

“Aw, c’mon, loser,” he whined. “Fight with me. I can take it.”

“You’re just trying to piss me off to make yourself feel better.” Her voice was a monotone as she finished rolling her clean socks on. “It’s not my job to punish you so you can stop feeling guilty.”

Butch opened his mouth. Nothing came out but the puff of a shocked scoff. He had no defense ready to deflect with.

“If you really want to make it up to me, why can’t you do something nice for once? Or just stop calling me names and apologize?”

“Make it up to you?” he sputtered. “I don’t want to make it up to you! Why should _I_ feel guilty? Screw you!”

With a silent, disdainful look, she pulled one boot on and started tying the laces.

“Oh, now it’s the cold shoulder again? Real mature, twerp.”

She shifted in the chair to turn her back on him and reached for the other boot.

“You’re being a total jerk, you know that? Bustin’ my chops for an _accident_. I didn’t mean for your thingy to get busted. It was a _joke_. A joke doesn’t deserve this shit.”

“What’d _I_ do to deserve getting thrown across the room? Kiss you?”

“You—uh—you—“ He groped for something, anything to say and seized on the first thing he found. “You messed up my hair!”

Violet stopped what she was doing and _stared_ at him.

Butch held her eyes for as long as he could stand.

He looked away. “This is lame.”

Violet shrugged and got to her feet.

“ _You’re_ lame,” he continued snidely.

Without a word, she headed for the door.

“I want a divorce!” he shouted at her back as she stepped into the hallway.

“Wait awhile,” she said before the doors could close. “You’ll get one.”

* * *

Proud of herself in spite of not mastering complete emotional detachment where her husband was concerned, Violet went to breakfast.

She was a bite or two away from finishing her pancakes when Butch arrived in the diner, alone. He came up short at the sight of her and without so much as a sneer, immediately turned on his heel and left. That wasn’t too bad; she hardly felt anything about it at all. Avoiding each other was something she could live with. Violet returned to her coffee, reassured that if she could convince the Overseer to relax the curfew slightly, living with Butch could be pretty painless. Especially if he wanted to ignore her as much as she did him.

Once she finished eating, she left the diner. In the corridor, she found DeLoria hovering toward the far end. He leaned against the wall, one boot braced against it, trying to seem nonchalant. Really, he was obviously waiting for her to leave so he could eat without her in the room.

That...was honestly more courtesy than she would have expected. When they were younger, if she’d been eating and he wanted her gone, he’d have plopped down across from her, stuffed his mouth to capacity and chewed with it open until she couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. Or worse.

Maybe he really had matured. A little.

Then again, when she walked past him and he swept his foot out to trip her, maybe not.

“Gee!” His eyes darted around the corridor, intentionally bouncing from surface to surface without ever landing on her. “What was that? Must be a g-g-g-ghost.”

“Asshole,” she muttered.

“Oh my _god_! It can talk!” Butch cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. “Go! Into! The light!”

Maybe it’d be better to ask the Overseer for mercy sooner, rather than later, even if she didn’t officially have more clinic hours yet. Her dad would understand.

* * *

Of all the things Violet expected to see when she entered the Overseer’s office, the man himself on his knees picking shards of broken glass out of the grooves in the floor was fairly low on the list.

“You,” he said flatly, with barely a glance in her direction.

Well, she hadn’t done anything this time, but that wouldn’t bother him if he wanted somebody to feel his wrath. Best try to get on his good side.

Violet cleared her throat and made sure her tone was plausibly sugary. “Good morning, Overseer.”

“Dispense with the pleasantries and get on with it.”

Her brows rose in shock. He usually relished even the smallest show of respect, no matter how forced. Either something was wrong, or she had to suck-up better.

Violet crouched down to help pick up the glass, concerned that he was going to cut himself if he wasn’t careful. Judging by some of the bigger pieces, someone had broken a liquor bottle.

“Sir, I wanted to ask you about relaxing the curfew—”

“Consider it canceled, and get out of my office.”

Canceled? She asked for a coffee break and he dropped a paid vacation in her lap? _Why_? Violet looked down at the shards in her hands, the ones on the floor, the fine dusting of glass under the Overseer’s boots that sparkled on steel.

“Was Butch here?” she asked with a sudden sinking feeling.

“Young lady, I am capitulating to your demands. Accept the victory and _leave_.”

“I didn’t make any demands.” She dropped the glass she had already collected into the nearby garbage can, and walked to the door. “Thank you for being so reasonable.”

She left without waiting for his response, not that he was likely to have much to say to her anyway. Why did he have to be such a miserable human being?

And just what was going on with the broken bottle? She wouldn’t be at all surprised if Butch had decided to throw a tantrum to protest their confinement, especially now that she was mad at him. But breaking a bottle wasn’t quite Butch’s style. When he was destructive, at least when it was on purpose, it was usually to get a laugh. Even if the only one laughing was him.

She didn’t have long to ponder. When she rounded the corner, she almost tripped over Paul. He crouched down in the middle of the corridor, trying to comfort Freddie. Poor Freddie, who huddled against the wall with his forehead pressed against his knees, hyperventilating.

“You were awesome, Freddie,” said Paul.

“I yelled at the Overseer,” Freddie gasped.

“Yeah! Like a real Tunnel Snake!”

“I threw stuff.”

“You showed him you meant business.”

“I’m gonna get in so much trouble.”

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause we got your back. Tunnel Snakes rule!”

“Hey, guys,” said Violet. Freddie flinched. Paul stayed calm.

“Hi, dork.”

“Panic attack?” Violet asked. “You’ll breathe better if you sit up.”

“I think I know how to handle a panic attack by now,” Freddie snapped.

She winced; yeah, that was fair. “Sorry. So you threw a bottle at the Overseer?”

“Not _at_ him. Near him.”

“He didn’t want to get locked in with Amata,” Paul explained. “They have to get hitched tomorrow.”

Well, she could understand why Freddie wouldn’t want that. Amata had been awful to him when they were kids, with the casual sort of cruelty that children so often traded in. Violet had always been too wrapped up in her own bully problems—and too scared of alienating her only friend—to say anything about it. And while they'd made some kind of amends since then, maybe it wasn't enough. Heaven knew it hadn't been enough for her and Butch.

“I don’t care about being locked in with _her_ ,” Freddie finally said around a gasp, “I just don’t want to be _locked in!_ ”

“I don’t think the Overseer would enforce the curfew for the rest of you, you know,” Violet said. “And after that bottle, he’s not even enforcing it for me anymore. So...thanks?”

Instead of the sense of relief she hoped to give him, Freddie wheezed harder. “He changed—because—me? I’m—so—dead!”

“You are not dead,” said Paul. “You showed that old man who’s boss!”

“I am not the boss!” Another tortured gasp squeaked its way into his lungs. The sheen of sweat under the fluorescent lights was starting to make his face look gray. If he didn’t get control of himself, he was going to pass out.

Violet knelt down to get a better look at him. The panic sounded like it’d tipped its way into an asthma attack. While he might have stood a chance against his own brain under better circumstances, no way did he stand one against his lungs in this condition. “We’d better get you to the clinic.”

He breathed out something that sounded like ‘kh’—she had to guess it was ‘okay’—and let them drag him to his feet.

* * *

Jonas was on duty when they arrived at the clinic, and he sprang into action without hesitation. He gave Freddie something to quiet his anxiety, and instructed Violet and Paul to help him hold his arms over his head. They quietly waited out the worst of it in that pose, while Freddie rattled and wheezed and apologized whenever he had enough breath for it. Neither of them minded; after all, there wasn’t much else to do. The official treatment protocol for a mild asthma attack was coaching, positioning and maybe a glass of water. A severe one got those things with a sedative on top.

People _died_ of asthma in the vault. Not often, only once a generation or so based on the records, but they did. If there had ever been any truly effective remedies, they must have been relics of the pre-war, and the supply had run out long before she was born.

Vault-Tec had provided what was _supposed_ to be a self-sustaining society, including medical considerations. They had an arboretum, where they grew willow to make aspirin. They had a secure hydroponics bay for restricted plants—the sort that made heavy duty drugs for surgery, anxiety and other serious issues. And fully half of the hydroponic garden was dedicated to potatoes, for eating and for making alcohol to drink or sterilize things.

But sometimes, there was nothing they could grow or synthesize to help what had once been a common ailment. Either Vault-Tec had overlooked this problem while preparing for long-term habitation, or they just expected people like Freddie to...well, _die out_.

(She hated how easily that thought came. How easily she accepted it as just-the-way-of-things, and waved at the idea as it drifted by.)

They passed fifteen minutes in almost-silence, until Freddie began to sink into the drugs and his breathing evened out. Ten minutes after that, they tucked him into one of the clinic beds so he could rest comfortably.

Paul hovered for a bit, holding a one-sided conversation at his bedside. Once Freddie was out, Paul looked at Violet and mumbled something that was almost apologetic. She wasn’t sure if he was sorry for complicating her day, or for showing such un-Tunnel-Snake-like concern for his friend. Either way, she didn’t mind.

“He should be fine,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on him for now, so you don’t have to stick around if you have somewhere you need to be.”

“Um. Yeah. I guess I’m late for work.” He checked his Pip-Boy. “An hour late. I’d better go.”

“I’ll cover for you, if your supervisor asks.” 

“Hey,” he said with a genuine, if somewhat puzzled, smile. “Thanks.”

Then he was gone, and there was nothing left to do but start her own work day.

* * *

Two hours passed. They were largely unremarkable. But every time she glanced at Freddie, unanswered questions chewed away at her peace of mind. 

He'd thrown a bottle at the Overseer, and that explained the foul temper he'd been in when she went to his office. But it didn't follow that he would let her and Butch off the hook afterward, or let Freddie escape punishment.

Was he afraid of Freddie? No, that couldn’t be it. Freddie had the intimidation factor of a wet noodle. Or maybe a dry one. Those broke in half if you looked at them wrong. 

Did he worry Freddie’s outburst meant something bad might happen to Amata after they married? Ehh. Possible, but she wouldn't gamble on it.

Or was he more concerned with what the outburst represented? If mild-mannered milquetoast Freddie Gomez was acting out at an authority figure, he might be losing control of his citizens. Backlash against the program had already been swift and pronounced, and without damage control, he must have known it could only get worse.

Maybe granting her and Butch a reprieve was a tactical decision: a kindness he could point to and say, ‘You see? No need to worry. I’m no _monster_.' He'd made an example of them to show how bad the program could be; now he could flaunt them as evidence of his mercy.

With what she knew of his tactics, it seemed likely.

Eventually, her father arrived to relieve Jonas. As he often did in the mornings, he looked tired and washed out. He even swayed a little when he leaned over to take a seat on his swivel stool, then scooted over to Freddie’s bedside. Still, he did his best to be chipper.

“I see we’ve already had some excitement this morning,” he said, glancing at Freddie’s chart.

“A little, but Jonas handled it. Rough night?”

“Mm. We’re running low on a few things.” Her father checked Freddie’s pulse, peeled his eyelids back to shine a light inside, and made a notation on the clipboard. “Stimpaks, in particular. The annual inventory reckoning is upon us, I fear.”

So, he spent the night in the lab making new ones—a time consuming and frustrating process. Violet knew that from the one time she’d tried to do it herself.

“Sounds like you need some extra help in here.” She tried not to sound too eager. “I’ve been thinking I could volunteer for some more shifts, actually. Like maybe the night shift? The, um, Overseer dropped that whole curfew thing.”

“Jonas would certainly appreciate the break,” her father said cautiously. He might or might not have been informed about her night in the jail cell, but he wasn’t likely to forget all the other problems she was having settling into her new life. He knew her too well to be fooled into thinking she was volunteering out of the goodness of her heart. But he was nice enough to play along with her until she told him otherwise, even if he probably figured out she and Butch were fighting without her having to say a word.

“So _Jonas_ is the one working late nights?” Violet teased. Actually, he should be. Jonas was the lab technician; it was his job to run the machines and synthesize chemicals. Strictly speaking, he and Violet weren’t supposed to be treating patients at all, but things ran much more smoothly with James and Jonas covering each other’s jobs as needed, and Violet filling in the gaps.

“Jonas works _most_ nights. You whippersnappers don’t need as much beauty sleep as the rest of us.” He spun on his stool and put the chart back where it belonged. “Why don’t you go into my office and get this week’s schedule from my desk? I’ll see if I can’t shuffle a few things around.”

Violet finished packing up the handful of empty Mentats tins that needed to go to the recycling station, then crossed to her dad’s office.

The schedule sat right on top of his calendar, so she took it. When she turned to leave, the corner of the clipboard knocked a pencil beside the calendar sideways, which skittered across his papers, rolled off the surface of the desk, bounced off the toe of her boot and disappeared somewhere under the furniture.

With a sigh, Violet squatted down to find it.

She was halfway underneath her father’s desk when she heard the clinic door open—and halfway on her way out again when she heard her father’s surprised, “Butch. What can I do for you?”

Violet froze.

“Doctorin’, what else?” She heard his boots cross the floor. “You take up construction while I wasn’t looking?”

In this position, and with only his voice and footfalls to go by, she couldn’t gauge where he was in the clinic. But he might be able to see the desk, depending where he stood. Oh, god, that meant she couldn’t move. If she moved, it might get his attention, and then he’d find her _hiding_ from him under office furniture like some kind of _total_ dweeb. He would never, ever let it go. He would tell her grandchildren about it someday, and then, when they were dead, his ghost would poke her ghost and say, “Hey, Nosebleed, remember that time we were married and you hid under your Da-a-addy’s desk?”

Well, then her ghost could tell his ghost to go into the light and _finally_ leave her in peace.

“How many times am I going to have to tell you to stop showing off with that switchblade of yours?”

Even without seeing Butch’s face, Violet could hear him pouting.

“It was scissors! I was _working_! You could be a little nicer to a guy who’s bleeding to death, y’know.”

“From that scratch? It would take you hours to bleed out.”

Metal casters on a metal floor, the shriek of a cabinet opening. Some soft whisper of something in the cabinet that she couldn’t identify on hearing, then the casters again. Her dad had gotten some gauze, she guessed, or maybe alcohol.

“Your daughter’s not here, is she?”

A pause. Then, “I don’t see her, do you?”

Great hedging! She’d have to congratulate him once she was out of this predicament and her face stopped burning with embarrassment.

“Good! I don’t want her thinking I came here for her.”

“I doubt she would make that mistake.”

“Good,” Butch said again, but this time he sounded almost sullen. He wasn’t hurt by that, was he? That’d be ridiculous!

“So...” Her father cleared his throat. “ _Are_ you here for her?”

“What? No! I’m here to get patched up. Don’t be stupid.”

“Funny. I could have sworn I’ve seen you walk off much worse than this. Perhaps I’m mistaken.”

There came the crisp _snip!_ of scissors in the silence Butch chose not to fill.

“I suppose,” her dad continued, in an airy verbal shrug, “I’m also mistaken in thinking you’re looking for a way to make up.”

Violet’s arms began to wobble from the strain of being on her hands and knees in perfect stillness. She hoped this weird heart-to-heart wasn’t going to take much longer.

But Butch found his voice and dashed her hopes of a speedy conclusion to this farce. “What, uh, what would that look like, exactly? Making up, that is. I mean, if we were fighting about something. Which we’re not.”

“Aah, a question you’re asking because you _don’t_ want the answer. Yes, I see,” he remarked. “The human heart. As ever, clear as mud.”

Butch remained uncharacteristically quiet. Maybe he was pissed at her father’s sarcasm and trying to control himself, or maybe he didn’t know what mud was and was trying to puzzle it out from the context clues. He probably got at least as far as ‘opaque.’

“It’s normal for newlyweds to fight. The first year I was married, my wife spent more nights with our friend Madison than with me. It was the closest she could come to going home and staying with her mother. Have you tried apologizing?”

“I can’t do that! It’d be lame!”

“So is sleeping on the sofa.”

“Shows what _you_ know.” From his tone, Butch had to be pulling a petulant face. “We don’t even _have_ a sofa.”

“So the floor, then.”

“No! I got a chai— _Shut up_.”

Violet shifted as much as she dared without making a sound, trying to take some pressure off her joints. If this didn’t end soon, her legs would fall asleep from the knee down. She could already feel a warning tingle.

“Dare I ask what you—er...what happened?”

“I didn’t do anything, if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” Butch snapped. Her dad sighed.

“Butch.”

“Even if I did, I didn’t do it on purpose! It ain’t my fault her stupid thingy broke. _I_ didn’t make it.”

“If it’s something irreplaceable, apologize. Profusely. If it’s not, replace it—and for the record, an apology still wouldn’t be amiss.”

“A Miss...who?”

Violet sighed quietly through her nose. Jeez, he really was as dumb as a bag of hammers sometimes.

“My point is, _apologize to her_.”

“Oh, fuck this.” Did she hear boots? Oh, thank fuck, she heard boots. And the door! He was storming out! “I don’t need your dopey old man advice!”

There came the blessed hum of hydraulics, the sweet song of steel meeting steel and, as she let her elbows and knees unlock, maybe even a choir of angels. He was gone, the door was closed, and at last she could get out from under the damn desk.

Violet shimmied out of her hiding place and peeked into the clinic. The coast was clear. Work could resume. She went over and handed her father the clipboard she’d knelt so hard for.

“Thanks for not ratting me out, Dad.”

He took the schedule absently, and frowned at the door to the corridor.

“Am I an old man?” he asked plaintively.

“Of course not. You don’t look a day over seventy.”

“I’m forty-nine!” He ran a hand over his beard, more to hide a smile than anything else. “It’s the gray hair, isn’t it? Behold your future!”

“Maybe I’ll take after Mom.”

“Joke’s on you, my dear. Catherine started to go gray the moment she turned seventeen.”

“Seriously?” There was only one picture of Violet’s mother, the one her father kept on his bedside table. It was hard to pin down colors with any hope of accuracy in grainy, faded black-and-white, but in all the years she’d stared at it, trying to figure out who Catherine was, she’d never imagined the gray hair was, well, actually gray. “Wait, does that mean _I’m_ going to go prematurely gray?”

“Oh, she was well on her way to a full head of silver by the time she was your age, sweetheart.” Her father did a poor job of hiding another smile. “But there’s still time to catch up. You live with Butch, after all.”

“Don’t remind me,” she grumbled. “So, are you going to make me... _talk_ to him?

“Good heavens, no! I used to tell you to make up with your little friends after a quarrel because I wanted you to learn how to resolve a conflict. But you’re a grown woman now. It’s entirely up to your own judgment whether or not forgiveness is even an option.”

“Wow...thanks, Dad.”

She had been half expecting a fight. Forcing her to find a way to get along with Butch just seemed like the parental thing to do. With nothing to argue against, she felt deflated...and confused.

“Well, it’s Butch,” her father said.

Before he could elaborate on that, the door opened and Butch stormed back in. He looked like he’d really worked himself into a lather.

“And one more thing—“ With his finger raised to jab in her dad’s direction, Butch stopped in his tracks. He cocked his head at Violet. “Where’d _you_ come from?”

“I...came in through the door. Same as you. Is that a problem?”

He looked over his shoulder in confusion, obviously wondering how she could have gotten past him in the hall without him seeing her. God, he was stupid sometimes. Lucky her.

“Yeah, so...anything...” He looked at her dad like he wanted to keep yelling, but he’d run out of steam.

James made a very obvious gesture in Violet’s direction, which she pretended not to see. If Butch wanted to apologize based on her dad’s advice, she’d listen, but she wasn’t going to make it any easier than she had to.

“Look,” Butch said, “I just came back because...I forgot my...” He picked up the first object that caught his eye. “Pen. I forgot my pen.”

“That’s _my_ pen,” said Violet.

“No, it isn’t.”

“I’ve been using it since I was fifteen.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“It has my _name_ on it.”

He frowned at the pen in his hand.

“That could be anyone’s name.”

“If it starts with ‘V’ and ends with ‘iolet’? Sure.” She folded her arms. “What do you need a pen for anyway?”

“I,“ he said loftily, and it was almost convincing enough for her to buy it, “am...writing a book.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t like it. It’s got tits in it.”

“A- _hem,”_ her father interrupted. “I do believe I’m needed in my office.”

“By who?” Butch and Violet said in unison.

But he’d already jumped from his stool and left the seat spinning. There might as well have been a Dad-shaped cloud of dust in his wake.

Well, he wasn’t much good at squabbling, anyway. Violet turned back to Butch.

“So. Tits, huh?”

“Yeah. Big ones.”

“You’re nothing if not consistent. Any tits I know?”

He laughed. “Whose tits would _you_ know?”

“Everyone’s. I’ve been in the women’s showers,” she said. “Why, whose tits would _you_ know?”

“ _Yours,_ for starters.”

“And enders!” Did he forget she knew his terrible secret? That he’d never seen a boob before they were married? “It’s going be a pret-ty short book.”

“Yeah, but short and full of tits, so win/win,” he said. “Smell ya later, loser, I gotta go find some, uh, some...uhhh—“

“Paper?” she offered in a flat voice.

“Yeah, that.”

Violet watched him go. And honestly? She half hoped he decided to see that ill-conceived lie through, if only for the hilarity it promised. It'd be quite a treat to read the Great American Novel as written by Butch DeLoria. What would he even call it? _The Catcher in the Tits? Farewell to Tits_?

No, she had a better one: _The Tits of Wrath._

* * *

Violet finished her shift, snagged a cup of coffee-to-go instead of a proper lunch, and went to find Amata. They’d hardly seen each other the last few days, except in passing. And while the end of the curfew meant there’d be more opportunities to visit together in the immediate future, it was still temporary. Once they had gaggles of children to watch out for, they’d probably never see each other ever again.

She found Amata toiling away in her supervisor's office, a gloried broom closet with a whirring security camera and a magnetic scheduling board that took up an entire wall. There were columns and rows separated by vault locations and hours of the day, filled by colorful chips of steel with names on them. Half of the vault dwellers were already neatly lined up and accounted for, and Amata was in the middle of moving the others around to new places for the coming week.

“Hey,” Violet said, gesturing at the names in Amata’s hand, “while you’re at it, could you stick Butch in the incinerator slot?”

“I would, but I don’t think his fat head would fit.” Amata stabbed one of the chips with Wally’s name into ‘Janitorial’ and moved a Janice into ‘Laundry.’ Each dweller was supposed to have a single job, but with so few people in the vault, some pulled double or even triple duty in other roles. Butch, she noticed, was only scheduled in the salon for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening. The rest of his day had been filled by other tasks. “What’s up?”

“Usual.” Violet shrugged. “So...you and Freddie tomorrow, huh?”

“Yeah.” The chips clicked in Amata’s hand as she shuffled them. “I’m not supposed to talk to you about it, by the way.”

“What? _Why_?”

“Oh, you know. Dad’s decided it’s civil ceremonies from here on out because you can’t behave yourself.” Amata shook her head. “He says you snuck some ‘seditious material’ into the religious one.’”

“The _bible_ is seditious material?”

“It is now.” Amata glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t be surprised if it goes missing.”

“Great, I guess I’ll have to get used to writing sermons out of _The Art of War_.” If that’s how he felt about a single direct quote from one of the few chaplain’s books she was allowed to have, she had to wonder what was in those she _didn’t_ have access to.

“I still want you to be my bridesmaid,” Amata said. “If you want to be, that is. I think Dad will allow that much, if you promise to keep your mouth shut the entire time.”

“Of course! I can definitely keep quiet. But can I kick him in the shin? Just a little?”

“Violet...”

“Sorry, sorry, I know. Even if he’s a tyrant, he’s still your dad.”

“He’ll retire eventually,” Amata said with a comforting smile. “Then _I_ can be the tyrant. First order of business: disbanding the Tunnel Snakes. What do you think, good campaign platform?”

“I’d vote for you. If we could vote.”

They both sighed.

In the silence that stretched between them, the intercom beside the door crackled and buzzed. “Amata!”

“I guess I’d better go.” Violet spared a meaningful glance at the security camera. Amata, meanwhile, shot a glare at the speaker.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to finish this and file the daily reports, and then do whatever _that_ ,” she gestured at the intercom, “will be.”

“Tomorrow though, right?”

“Tomorrow,” Amata said unhappily.

Violet gave her a gentle punch in the arm. “It’ll be okay.”

“Yeah.” There was no life in Amata’s voice; there was even less in her face. “Yeah, that...sure is what everyone keeps saying.”

* * *

Violet went to her office. Someone had been there, and while she wasn’t surprised, the invasion of her privacy made a knot of dread twist in her stomach. True to Amata’s word, the bible _was_ gone. It might reappear someday if the Overseer felt generous, but when it did, she had no doubt it would return with passages blacked out or entire sections excised from the binding with surgical precision. (Her copy of _The Illustrated Man_ had an entire chunk missing, removed the same way. She could only guess at the politics behind it.)

She never should have brought it to his attention, and especially shouldn't have used it as a weapon against him. The smug satisfaction of a flash-in-the-pan rebellion wasn’t worth the price.

Since she couldn't do anything about it, Violet tried not to dwell. At least she could preserve the passages she remembered on her computer terminal. She spent the afternoon doing so, and created a few dummy files to throw him off the trail if he decided to get nosy.

After that, with nothing else to do, she filled the hours until her clinic shift with other practical matters. Dinner and a short nap and a hot shower. She reported for duty at nine, Jonas took off at eleven, and she remained blissfully undisturbed until after one.

The emergency that showed up on her doorstep at half past the hour was not one she’d anticipated.

“Jonas!” A pounding started up on the clinic door, despite the fact that all vault doors opening into public areas were designed to open automatically unless specifically overridden from within. The clinic was never locked, and, in fact, had a more sensitive mechanism than any other door in the vault.

So Violet didn’t bother to get up, and after three over-aggressive knocks, the door slid open on its own. Butch, who had been knocking with his elbow, staggered into the room, carried forward by unchecked momentum.

“What are _you_ doing here? You’re not Jonas,” he squawked.

“Brilliant observation. Jonas went home early. I’m pulling the night shift.”

“Oh, great. Thanks for telling me. I could have been in bed this whole time, but I thought you were hanging around, girling up the place.”

“Well, excuse me for doing my girling up elsewhere.” She hesitated as a thought struck her. “Wait a minute, are you trying to give me space?”

“NO! I’m avoiding you. It’s mean. You’re devastated that I’m not paying attention to you.” He smiled in spite of himself, and she felt herself thaw toward him, just a bit.

“You’re right, that is devastating,” she said. “You’d better keep doing it, to make sure I really get the message.”

“You got it, babe. But..” He held up what had been his good hand, to reveal a blistered burn across the palm. “Can I get an ice pack before I go?”

“Butch!” She grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him over to her work station. “How do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“I gotta be honest with you, I’m pretty drunk,” he said, which came as no surprise. The fumes coming off him were making her eyes water. “Pretty sure I broke Andy’s stabilizer,” he added.

Ah, that explained it. She could picture the robot suddenly spinning in midair, catching Butch with his thruster before he could get out of the way. He was lucky it had been his hand and not his face. (Not that she cared what happened to his face. His stupid technically-sort-of-handsome face.)

“What were you trying to do to him this time? An expansion of your Titties protocol?” she asked as she placed a layer of sterile gauze over his palm to act as insulation against the cold pack. Butch sputtered with laughter.

“Titties!” He enunciated it crisply, in a perfect imitation of a Mr. Handy accent. Then he shook his head. “No, that prank was childish. I’m much more mature these days.”

“You’re making him call people Wienerface,” she accused. Butch laughed.

“Next time! That’s a good one.”

“So what did you do? Is it Butts?” She settled the coldpack in his hand. “It’s Butts, isn’t it?”

“ _No_. It’s Comrade Von Butts.” He kept a straight face for a few seconds before he snorted and then started to cackle.

“Infant,” Violet muttered. She grabbed her dad’s prescription pad and wrote, _Please give idiot aspirin when sober_. “You can come back and show this to my dad in the morning.”

“What, you’re already trying to get rid of me?” Butch pouted, but Violet guessed he was just put out that she wasn’t laughing at Comrade Von Butts. “Anyone ever tell you your bedside manner is shit?”

“Constantly.” She laid the makeshift prescription on the table in front of him, then made a shooing motion. “Get out of my clinic.”

“You’re the worst doctor I’ve ever seen.” Butch’s frown deepened as he clumsily picked up the paper with the hand he’d sliced open earlier in the day, still wrapped up like a mitten.

“I’m not a doctor,” she reminded him.

“Oh, yeah? Then what are we doing right now? _Playing_ doctor?”  


“All right, Butch, how drunk are you?”

Butch fell into a chair and gave her a dopey grin. At least he still had the coordination not to fall on the floor, but he would never smile at her like that if he were sober.

“You’re talkin’ to me now? What’d I do to deserve Her Majesty’s favor?”

“I’m speaking to you as a medical professional, you insufferable ass! If I send you home and you die of alcohol poisoning, they’ll make me fill out a ton of paperwork.”

“Oh, I’m not _that drunk_. I just, we had a bachelor party for Freddie. And we all, we decided, since I didn’t get a party, we had to drink double. To make up for it. And Wally, he’s not getting a party either, so we had to drink for him, too.”

“Oh, so you invited Wally.” That made a cold spot in her pit of her stomach, but she tried to remind herself that it was none of her business.

“Had to invite him. He’s the only one who could borrow those holotapes from Stevie.” He blushed suddenly. “Um, it was sports. We watched hockey.”

“Sounds like fun.” If he thought she didn’t know what happened at a bachelor party, she could let him have this one.

“Yeah, in the seventh inning, the Atoms got a...hole in one.” He cleared his throat, probably realizing he was pushing well past the point of credibility. “So anyway, we had a lot of booze.”

“And now I can’t give you any painkillers until you sober up.”

“Aw, really? But it hu-urts,” he whined.

“I know it does. The best we can do right now is ice it and hope the pain doesn’t keep you up all night.” She wasn’t without sympathy, but she really didn’t want to make the offer that she knew she had to. “You can come back for as many more cold packs as you need...or you could save yourself some trouble and just sleep here tonight.”

“What?” He tipped sideways in his confusion. “You want me to stay here? With _you_?”

“’Want’ is such a strong word. I’m just doing my job, I swear.”

“It’s not your job to be...you’re sideways.”

“Sit up.”

“Oh.” He righted himself in the chair. “Y’know, even your pop would leave me to fend for myself right now, and he’s a _real_ doctor.”

“Okay, so I’m doing my job as chaplain. 'The Lord forgives a sinner.' Do you want to stick around or not?”

“Yeah, I guess I could do you a favor. Keep you from dying of boredom and all.” He moved to get up, and looked surprised when all he did was send the chair rolling backward. With a weary sigh, Violet went to help him up.

“Come on, there’s a hospital bed with your name on it. And that’s not a threat, for once.”

“Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?” Butch asked as she hauled him to his feet. She propped him up against the nearest bed.

“Dream on, jackass.”

“I will! And you’ll be in that little red number, too—” He shook his head, and had to take a moment to catch his balance. “Wait, no, I’m doing this wrong. You.” He touched a finger to her nose. She fought the urge to slap it away. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”

“I am?”

“Shut up, I’m apologizing. I was trying to make you mad,” he said firmly. “That’s just good comedy. But I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

Violet waited, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Was that the apology?” she asked finally.

“Yeah. Why? Did I forget something?”

“The part that’s an actual apology,” she reminded him.

“What? I said I didn’t mean to. What else do you want, flowers?”

“’I’m sorry for...’” Violet prompted.

“I’m sorry, four-eyes?”

“I don’t even wear glasses!”

“So? It was there.”

“Idiot.” She wasn’t going to get a real apology out of him. He was only going to keep baiting her, because he wanted her attention, not her forgiveness. She had to stop falling for that.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and swayed, and smirked. Like a mad pendulum swing, he lurched her direction with his lips puckered. What was he thinking?!

Violet dodged and gave him a shove that sent him sprawling backwards on the hospital bed. He landed with a thump.

“Hey!”

“A kiss is not an apology!”

He sprang into a seated position with a drunken leer. “What if I spelled it out with my tongue?”

She made a disgusted sound. “I’d rather you did it with words.”

Butch reached out to her. His hands, one swathed in gauze and another full of ice pack, were like clumsy oven mitts as he grabbed her by the shoulders. She didn’t shrug him off because she wanted to see where this was going and he seemed like he needed the support, but she stayed ready to fend off another vodka-fueled advance.

“I’m sorry,” he said, with a solemness that she could believe was sincere.

It wasn’t the willing apology she might have hoped for. But it was an apology. Maybe even a genuine one. And it was the best she was going to get.

“Thank you for saying so,” she told him. She even managed a small smile. Dazedly, he smiled back.

And promptly threw up on her shoes.

Just a little. Hardly enough to mention. But he stared a moment at the puddle he'd made, and said, “Now I’m sorry for two things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Serious advisories** : brief misogynistic language, non-explicit child abuse (emotional/control-based), panic attack, asthma attack, hints of ableism, vomiting, relationship dysfunction because these poor children are having a hard time establishing/maintaining healthy boundaries. (They will get better at it, I promise!)
> 
>  **Less serious advisories** : everyone’s petty, stubborn and moody while learning how to be grown-ups; I've never met a set of italics I didn't like; did I really use a throwaway line about Trixie Belden seven chapters ago just for this payoff, yes I did.


End file.
